


Storms and Sands

by beans_on_toast



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Andy & Quynh cameo, Attempt of Historical Accuracy, But also Magic Exists so, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Mage!Yusuf, Over use of Storm Metaphors, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Storm Spirit!Nicolo, The Eroticism of Breathing in Sync
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 07:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30035079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beans_on_toast/pseuds/beans_on_toast
Summary: A curious storm spirit follows the Christians to war, where he is discovered, imprisoned in a human body named Nicolò, and forced into the war effort. Meanwhile, Yusuf, a gifted mage, is in al-Quds on business for his merchant family when it besieged. He offers his aid to help with the city's magical defenses.When the two cross swords during the sack of the Holy City and Yusuf tries to free Nicolò from his entrapment, powerful magic ties the two together. As they flee the crusaders’ destruction and make their way to Yusuf's teacher to try and free the storm, they must navigate their strange bond alongside their old lives, new powers, and growing feelings for one another.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 46
Kudos: 126
Collections: The Old Guard Big Bang





	1. a prelude to war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, okay, here we all are. I'm gonna try and keep this a bit short, but there are a few people who made this all possible:
> 
> I had the greatest honour to work with two artists for this fic. [GrinAndBearIt's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrinAndBearIt/pseuds/GrinAndBearIt) artwork can be found in this chapter! Please go and show them some love on [tumblr.](https://adarlingartwork.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Special thanks to:  
> Book - for this idea that has grown so far beyond your original prompt, but I still hope you enjoy it!  
> Marivan/Sprites - my lovely beta, who just casually agreed to help out and ended up being a large reason that this fic exists _at all_. Thank you thank you thank you.  
> Luna - for all the commas this morning! :D
> 
> And big BIG BIG thanks to every other person on discord who shouted with me, workshopped, sprinted, read snippets, and loved these two dumb idiots as much as I did. This is as much a gift of love for all of you as it is for me!
> 
> I did do quite a bit of research for this fic, but also magic exists, so we've definitely veered away from full historical accuracy. If I've made any egregious errors, please let me know!

He was a storm and storms have no names. 

He was howling winds and lashing rain and thunderous lightning. He was gentle sea breezes and clear blue skies. He held life and death in his hands, as he always had, and thought nothing of it. 

The men spoke. They laughed and sang. Sometimes they burned the bones of animals, _quietly_ , _quietly_ , and the smell drew him. They prayed in soft whispers and loud voices. They asked for clear skies and good trading and for the souls of their husbands and fathers on the sea. They asked for rain for the harvest and for their daughter's and son's full stomachs. They prayed to the storm and he listened, when he could. 

The wind had changed, as it was wont to do. The wind changed and the men no longer burned the bones into charcoal for him.

They prayed with a new name, but it was not his. 

_Dio_. They called and he did not know who heard them.

They built walls of stone and glass, to keep him out. He whistled through cracks and nooks. He beat rain against the roofs. The wind was changing. Their voices raised and quivered and shook. He felt them drumming in his lungs, filling his thoughts. This was new. 

He was the tempest. He was the calm. He was the wind and wind was ever changing. 

And so, he changed.

The tempest grew. It grew without him, around him, beyond him. He heard them. The man who shouted and the men who listened. He could pull a storm from Mother Sky herself and he could see one coming.

The prayers were not to him. But they called and he listened. They said the cause was worthy. Their sons and husbands and fathers and lovers were just. Deliver them to safety, _Dio_.

\---

'What is your name?' The man was gruff. Tall and broad. If he were a wall, the wind could not knock him down. 

Except the wind could not knock down any walls now. He heard the call, as the men did. He filled their sails. He sheltered their ships from storms. He pushed them past his brother's and sister's roosts. He felt the unmoored thrill of the open sea. He felt the glorious rush as more men joined, more men prayed. He felt powerful.

He wanted to know his humans, who had prayed to him for so long. He was the rain that dripped into their holds. He was the breeze that tugged them ever east. He whispered under doors and into tents.

Now the wind did not feel like wind at all. 

The man sat heavily. He smelled sharp and sweet. It was too much, scents with no wind. They hung and tumbled and _stuck_. They stuck to him. He felt lightheaded. But his head stayed firmly on. 

He should have known. He should have _seen_. Those men who smelled of ozone and sharp rocks. Even as wind, he could smell them, so different to the others. To brush past them felt like being burned. But there was no fire to build to an inferno. The fire was inside them and he should have known.

Wind could be caught. Storms could be harnessed. These men controlled magic and magic controlled him. 

The air was hot here. It was dry and it made his walls seem thin and tight. Not walls, skin. The men had taken one of their own and lured the storm in. It had been so strange, darting past teeth and tongue. He had brushed past men's lips as a gentle breeze and lashed against them as a winter squall. 

He had never gone down, _down_ , filling lungs, expanding, breathing in in _in_. There were walls, but no cracks. The breath went out but the wind stayed in. Trapped.

The man touched him, a shove of arm against arm, and the storm riled. He was clouds and lightning butting up against the coast. 'What is your name?' He repeated.

The storm had no name when the storm was free. But the storm wanted to know men and now the storm knew. 

The wind was ever changing and he was changed.

'They call me Nicolò.' _Victory._

\---

Nicolò shifted restlessly. There was an ache along his side. No matter how he stood or moved, he could not alleviate it. His clothes felt stifling. He licked at his lips, dry and cracked as they were. He could not remember the last time he had drunk. He shifted again, wishing for relief, though he could not pinpoint from what. It could be the dull ache of hunger, the pinch of thirst, or the itch of his pale skin, constantly burning, peeling and healing. Nicolò’s skin felt too tight, as though he had swelled in the heat. It brought to mind the rotting corpses they had passed on march, covered in thick black flies. He moved again, unsettled by the nausea settling in his gut.

A broad hand came to rest on his shoulder and he squinted behind him at Sebastien. The tall Frank smiled down at him.

‘Calm yourself little storm.’ He tightened his grip minutely, a warning that he could not speak. _Others are watching_. _You’ll make them nervous._ Nicolò took a deep breath. He let the warm, dry air of the desert fill his lungs. It pressed against him and he held it, wrestled with it. The sand scratched at his lungs like it did his skin. ‘If God wills it, we will take the Holy City soon enough.’ Sebastien’s words would raise no eyebrows, but Nicolò heard the hollowness in his tone. 

Jerusalem rose before them. The city’s walls stood proudly over the surrounding plains and brush. The setting sun burned low in Nicolò’s vision, throwing shadows across the northern wall. Men had fought and died to reach this moment in the hope they would fight well enough for the eternal salvation of their souls. And here Nicolò stood, with no hope of salvation.

The Holy City was the prize. The men with the sparks under their skin told him this, in the days after he was first caught. They called themselves clerics; holy men who could shape the magical forces of the world and bend them to their will. They spoke of their divine mission to free Jerusalem from the infidels. 

They told the trapped storm called Nicolò about the will of their mysterious God. How he would answer their prayers and piety. Nicolò did not tell them that _he_ had heard them when they prayed. There was no one else in his sky to listen.

It had been over two years since then, two years of a slow march through deserts and sand. Cities had fallen under the press of men imbued with holy purpose. For the first time in his existence, he had moved among men, instead of whistling overhead. He felt the hot pulse of blood as steel split skin and rendered bone. Nicolò had watched through storm gray eyes. 

Nicea, the first to fall, haunted his dreams still. 

He hated the feeling of the sun bearing down on him. He was a creature of rain and seas. He did not belong here and he wished to return home. He thought of busy ports and the warm smell of water on a spring day, salty and fresh. He remembered the early winter squalls and the sharp sting of the salt spray. He felt the irrepressible desire to fly build in him. He wished to shed this prison and let the foreign currents drag him back to the sea, chastised and humbled. Sand whirled around his feet. Sebastien’s hand gripped tighter.

Nicolò closed his eyes. He clenched his hands into fists, to feel the sharp flare of pain on his palms. He was flesh and bone and the storm raged impotently inside him. Sebastien moved forward until he was close enough for Nicolò to sense the hot breath from his friend’s mouth. Nicolò followed the slow inhale and exhale. The sharp smell of magic, like burning wood, faded with the pain in his side. Sebastien waited until he felt the tension drop from Nicolò’s shoulders before removing his hand.

‘Thank you Bastien.’

‘It is my job, Nicolò.’ Nicolò felt the warmth rush in his chest. Another emotion he could not name. He wished he had the words to describe it so he could ask Sebastien’s help as he always did. There had been many things Nicolò did not understand about this new body. He had to contend with hunger and thirst and the limitations those carried. Sebastien helped him with those. He reminded Nicolò to eat and drink, to rest when he was weary.

Sebastien had taken pity on Nicolò the first time he felt full to bursting and showed him how to stand. Nicolò commented that the rainstorm would barely water one plant and Sebastien laughed so long, Nicolò began to worry that he had broken his friend. 

Sebastien taught him to fight, after Nicea. Nicolò could not be what he had been at Nicea. Not again. He had seen the twisted bodies. The faces frozen in the moment of endless night and terror. Sebastien had moved him away, but even so his body had nearly burned from the inside out. But even as the cleric’s healing spells knit him back together, he could not bear to see the men from his home die. So he asked Sebastien to teach him to fight as a man. Nicolò was lucky. The body he was trapped in had been young and strong, a fighter. He could heft the heavy, straight blade.

He felt men die on that sword and he wondered if he could ever be light enough to be wind again. 

‘Have they asked?’ Sebastien’s hand was on his sword, his voice quiet. Sebastien was there, besides him, his breath steady on the wind. Nicolò’s lungs fell into line, as they always did.

‘They always ask,’ Nicolò responded, feeling the flare of pain against his side. It chaffed him. The clerics did not ask, they demanded. And he said his lungs were too small. It was a lie. When they spoke words that made his borrowed ribs ache, he felt the storm build under his skin, beating against his chest. It roiled inside him, ready to be released.

He pushed it down. He was no longer wind. He was blood and flesh and bone now. He had a name. He was like them. 


	2. under the desert sun

‘Yusuf, praise God, I have found you. Aziz has asked for you on the wall.’ Yusuf turned to find Malik waving at him. Malik was so young his beard was still patchy and dark, tired circles sat heavy under his eyes. Yusuf shoved the rest of his food, something hard and tasteless he couldn’t name, in his mouth and dusted the crumbs from his beard. Malik jogged over to him with a smile. He shifted nervously as Yusuf retied his turban. Malik was constantly in motion, his hands and feet moving unconsciously. Yusuf bit his tongue not to snap at the youth as they set off together.

‘They are moving the siege tower. They say that the one on the south wall has been burned. That is the smoke. Hopefully, this means they will fall back. What do you think, Yusuf? I do not think they expected our shield to hold as long as it has.’ Malik talked as though the words were falling straight out of his head. The syllables tumbled excitedly together in the manner of youth that have been given attention and responsibility beyond their imagining. Yusuf could see the sparks of power jumping from Malik’s fingers as he hurried to keep up with Yusuf’s longer strides.

‘Malik, pay attention!’ Yusuf grabbed the younger man’s tunic and wrenched him back before he ran into two men carrying a wounded soldier. ‘Now take a deep breath and tell me why the commander sent you.’ The teen had the good graces to look sheepish, his cheeks darkening. He purposefully looked down each cross street before stepping forward. 

‘Sorry, sir. Two messengers have come from the other wall. They worry that the invaders are using some special magic that’s draining us mages faster so Commander asked me to find you,’ Malik concluded. Yusuf grunted as he followed Malik up the stairs. 

Commander was a rather grandiose title for a small, angry man with battle scars across his forearms. Aziz had once been one of the guards that patrolled the market. He had often stopped by Yusuf's family stall for a chat. Yusuf liked him. He was pragmatic and steady. When news of the destruction wrought at Nicea reached Jerusalem, Aziz had been one of the few to suggest magical defenses. His foresight had helped turn the tide in the original assault.

Though he was not gifted himself, Aziz was a born leader. He took care of his men and they, in turn, trusted him. He grimaced when he saw Yusuf step onto the walls. Yusuf read the apology for interrupting Yusuf’s well deserved break in the commander’s movements. Yusuf waved his hand in dismissal. 

Two women stood with the commander. They were dressed much the same as the other men; padded jackets, linen tunics and loose fitting breeches. The smaller one had a veil wrapped across her mouth and nose, similar to the litham he had seen in his travels. Yusuf could only see her eyes, which crinkled at the edges as though she were smiling at him. 

The taller one’s face was uncovered, her hair half hidden in a headdress. She wore a leather jerkin over her tunic and had a two headed axe strapped to her back. She crossed her arms and looked up and down his body, undoubtedly taking in his rumpled and tired appearance. ‘You are al-Tayyib?’ she asked in Arabic, her accent hard to place. 

‘My name is Yusuf, but some call me al-Tayyib,’ Yusuf offered graciously. She turned to the other one and they exchanged quick words in a short, nasally tongue. Aziz raised an eyebrow at him. Yusuf shook his head; he didn’t recognise the language. The smaller woman stepped forward then and unwound the scarf from her face. 

Yusuf took an unconscious step back. She was, for lack of a better description, _glowing._ Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief and her lips quirked up in a smile at his retreat. She shared a loaded look with her companion. Yusuf was about to ask, but a quick glance to the side showed him that Aziz and Malik had not noticed the woman’s appearance. He swallowed his questions.

‘I am Quỳnh and this is Andromache. We have been helping at the Southern gate. The tower there has been burned. We came to check on yours.’ She indicated the bow slung across her shoulders. ‘I can offer my bow if you think it would be useful.’

‘That would be very kind of you. Yusuf can show you where to line up on the wall. Will you also fight Andromache?’ Aziz stumbled slightly over the strange pronunciation but the women did not make mention of it. 

‘I am better in hand to hand combat,’ she said, with a wave of her hand. ‘I will relay what is happening here to the other captains and then I will return.’ She brushed her hand along her companion’s arm and Quỳnh nodded. Yusuf found it slightly mesmerizing how they seemed to speak by glance and touch alone. ‘Will you come with me Commander Aziz? I have a few questions about the spell wall.’

‘Well, I suppose ….’ Aziz looked at Yusuf, who nodded.

‘I will watch the wall in your absence. You should take a rest as well,’ Yusuf said. Aziz snorted but he followed Andromache as she moved past Yusuf and Malik to the stairs. She was nearly a head taller than him. ‘Return to your post Malik.’ Malik jogged back to his place on the wall, the flare of his spells catching the edge of Yusuf’s vision. 

‘And what about me?’ Quỳnh asked, her bow already in her hand. 

‘You, um, you can come with me this way.’ Yusuf pointed further down the wall, to where the Franks were moving their tower. She looked over her shoulder and hummed. 

‘Walk with me, Yusuf called al-Tayyib.’ She offered her hand and wiggled her fingers at him. When he hesitated, she crooked her head to the side with a grin. ‘Or should they call you something else perhaps?’

‘It’s not far,’ he said and strode past her. Her light laughter followed him.

‘You can see me, can’t you. The real me?’ she whispered when she caught up with him. He jerked at the feel of her hand at his elbow.

He looked quickly around and wet his lips. ‘What _are_ you?’

‘Something very rare. I have never met another like myself in all my travels. Not many mages can see it.’ She fixed him with a stare and he shuddered. The woman next to him looked barely older than himself, her skin smooth and unwrinkled. But there was something ancient in her gaze that made Yusuf feel uneasy. ‘You see many things Yusuf ibn Ibrahim.’

‘How do you know my father’s name?’

‘I see many things too.’ She flashed that grin again, her teeth blindingly white. ‘I am sorry that we had to meet here and now. I think I would very much like to get to know you better.’ She squeezed his arm. 

‘Er, thank you.’ 

‘Is it that space where I would be useful?’ She walked away before he could answer, slotting in between a mage and another archer. Yusuf stood for a moment. She looked back at him and winked.

With a sigh, he found an open spot closer to the slow moving tower and began to weave his spell. 

\---

The battle raged for most of the night again. The invaders’ clerics were skilled battle mages but their ranks had thinned with the sickness and hunger that haunted the armies’ footsteps through the desert. There had been little enough time for al-Quds to prepare, but it had been spent teaching anyone who could conjure a flame to add their gift to the spell shield.

Yusuf had been trained young, his mother had insisted on it, but even he found the relentless thrashing of magic against his senses painful. He held his position for hours as the weaker and less gifted mages were relieved. Time slipped away from him then, caught up in the whisper of the ancient tongue. He could see the flare and fade of magic in the edge of his vision. He tried not to think too hard on the paling of the shield before him.

Malik found him just after the third bell in the morning. The younger man gently loosened Yusuf’s hands, breaking the spell carefully as Yusuf had taught him.

‘Rest now,’ Aziz said with a solid hand on his shoulder. Yusuf mumbled something, no longer in Arabic, and stumbled on legs that had forgotten how to bend. He passed the space once occupied by Quỳnh the-only-of-her-kind, but she was gone. Malik murmured that the tall woman had returned and they had both left before midnight. 

Yusuf stumbled to a nearby house, his limbs slow to obey him. The inhabitants had long since fled and he stepped over his fellow snoring soldiers to find a free corner. He untied his sword, keeping it clasped in his hands, and curled in upon himself on a dusty mat. Yusuf tried to gather his thoughts, but they swam before him.

When he finally drifted off, his mind would still not settle. He dreamt of a glowing woman, with twinkling mischievous eyes, who whispered love poems in his ears. When he reached for her, her eyes changed to the soft green of the sea surrounding Tunis. He fell into them and he was once again at home, near the busy docks. He treaded water as seagulls screamed overhead. He tried to swim to shore, but he could not. He yelled, in Derja and Arabic and Sabir, but no heads turned to him. His limbs grew tired and weak. He slipped beneath the calm waves.

The pressure on his chest grew and grew. He tried to breathe but the water was thick and cloying. It tasted of ash and burnt his lungs.

Yusuf startled awake, only to find smoke in his lungs and screaming in his ears.

Yusuf tried to sit up but his head buzzed. He blinked slowly once, then once more. He felt as though he were fifteen again and had snuck into his uncle's wine stores with his cousin. The dull ache, the roil in his stomach, and the quiver in his hands felt the same. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

It took him a moment to remember that he was not at home in his room, hiding from his father’s ire. He was in a city besieged. He could smell smoke and hear screams, the muffled sounds of clashing metal. Yusuf heaved himself up. The small room was empty. He wondered why he had not been roused but found no answers there. He made it to the door, his head aching. 

Al-Quds was overrun. Still exhausted and overwhelmed by what must be the magical aftereffects of the spell shield collapsing, Yusuf paused in the doorway and stared. The streets outside were filled with bodies. Invaders and defenders, dressed too similarly to tell apart, clashed. Dust settled over everything, cloaking the fighting men even further. He was barely a stone’s throw from the wall, but it may as well have been leagues away.

Yusuf heard his name. A soldier’s face swam into his vision. 

'What happened?'

'They've broken the shield and are inside the walls. The governor has surrendered. We are to find sanctuary at the mosque!' The man tried to drag him, his hands tightly gripping Yusuf’s elbow. Yusuf shook him off and pushed away from him. The wall. Malik and Aziz would be on the wall. 

The man reached for him again and Yusuf growled. ‘I must get to the wall.’ The soldier stared at him in disbelief but did not press him as Yusuf moved away from him.

Yusuf’s legs were shaky as he pushed from doorway to wall to window, moving towards the wall. Blood, dark and wet, splashed on his boots. He was lucky, if that could be a word used now, that those brawling seemed more interested in their opponents than himself. He spoke a small spell of endurance, his hands shaking and gray, in order to make the last push. 

He had stood on this wall only short hours before. He had looked out over the Christian invaders and added his voice to the spell that protected every man, woman, and child still within the walls. He had prayed to Allah at the appointed hours and asked for his protection. The ramparts were empty, the archers and mages scattered. A large chunk of stone had been pushed over the rampart and at the bottom… Yusuf moaned and his knees finally gave out. 

He crawled, like a babe, pulling himself the last few feet to the bottom of the wall. 

Malik lay half on the street, half on the steps. His eyes were wide, terrified. Yusuf forced himself not to look down. He did not want Malik to look down. Malik’s breath came in soft, panting gasps. He gripped Yusuf’s tunic tightly in his hands and twisted. 

‘Yusuf,’ Malik coughed, great hacking coughs that reverberated in Yusuf’s arms, ‘Yusuf the shield. You need to get me back on the wall.’ 

'No, no, it’s alright Malik. You rest now.’ Yusuf covered the boy's hands with his own. He gently rubbed Malik’s fingers. They were so cold. ‘Stay here and I'll come back for you.'

'Yusuf-'

'Rest now Malik. I'll be back as soon as I can.' He touched Malik’s cheek and ghosted a kiss to his forehead. The younger man sighed.

‘I am tired, Yusuf.’

‘You’ve done so well Malik. Your family will be proud.’ Yusuf tightened his jaw, forcing his voice to be steady. Malik took a shuddering breath and moaned when it jostled his legs. Yusuf sang a soft spell of sleep and calm. Malik’s eyes slid closed and his grip on Yusuf’s hands slackened.

Yusuf allowed himself a handful of heartbeats to sit. He touched Malik’s skin, rubbed his hand on cheeks still too young to grow a beard, and he mourned. Then with a steadying inhale, Yusuf pushed himself up to standing. His fingers were numb and cold. He knew that his magic was beyond exhausted. He unsheathed his sword instead. 


	3. blood of mine enemy

The fall of the Holy City's spell shield thundered inside Nicolò’s skull. For a moment, he was blind and dumb. Such a large, complicated spell collapsing under its own weight was bound to ripple through the troops. Any being with a magical attunement felt it. Sebastien’s hand found his and Nicolò held on for a moment, gritting his teeth against the press of magic. Wind raged in his chest and he felt unmoored.

By some minor miracle, the final siege tower was nearly in position when the shield fell and shortly after the buzzing in Nicolò's ears settled, a roar went up from the invaders. The gate had been breached. Godfrey of Bouillon’s men had entered the city. The holy soldiers would take Jerusalem.

It was as if a river broke through a dam, the bodies of triumphant soldiers moving as one. He had not been inside the cities they took since Nicea, but he could not turn around even if he wished to now. He lost his grip on Sebastien’s hand and went tumbling through the now open gate. The crush of unwashed bodies and the cloying scent of blood, so much blood, clung to Nicolò. Even after all this time, he found concentrated smells overwhelming. He could barely think. 

The gate opened onto a large avenue, the shadow of the mosque rising before them. By the time Nicolò made it inside the walls, the conquerors and the conquered clashed in heated combat. The sounds of men dying screeched through the air, swords thundered, shields rumbled. The river of humanity had split and fractured. There was no cohesion here.

Hundreds of miniature battles raged; each one a seemingly unending sway of life and death. As waves crashed upon a cliff, the invaders hit resistance and pushed back against it. 

He was given no more time for contemplation as a sword flashed into his vision. He barely got his shield up in time, deflecting the swing made his teeth click together. He pushed the assailant off and the other man stumbled away with a grunt.

Nicolò was stronger than he looked. 

He breathed deeply and let it out slowly. His senses narrowed to the small space around him; the swing of his sword, the hard bricks at his back. His enemy was his concern. He cut him down and moved on. Another came to stand in his stead.

Nicolò felt the air move around him. He knew the flow of it and he knew how to use it. The turn of a sword, the inhale of breath, the shift before a feint; he could sense them moments before the strike would fall. His opponents needed to be greatly skilled to surprise him, while his strokes fell true and devastating. He felt the air split and change, heralding an incoming swing from his left. 

He dodged and thrust his sword. He felt the solid connection against flesh and the splatter of warm blood against his face. Movement again. Shield. Sword. Dodge. Hack. The press of soldiers moved beyond him but he lagged at the end. He needed the space, needed the wind and the _freedom_.

He was air, dancing and flowing. In these moments, he was a vessel in the truest sense. He moved with little thought and he felt almost free. 

\---

The air burned. Great, gasping sobs tore from Nicolò’s lips as his body demanded air and he obeyed. He felt as though he had been fighting for an age and the constant healing tired him. Tapping into his magic to read the winds tired him even faster. 

The assault continued and Nicolò’s chest ached. Wounds on his arms and hands healed before the blood landed onto the now blackened sand and stone. 

He sagged for a moment, his sword dipping. Blood dripped off the blade and splashed into rivulets flowing on the street. The smell was so strong he no longer even noticed. It had become the smell of the city, nothing more. So much death here. It weighed on him like chains about his ankles.

He nearly missed the shift, the tell-tale hint of air, of an oncoming blade. Nicolò tried to turn but slipped on the soft body of a fallen man. The sudden shocking burst of pain in his shoulder took his breath away.

The dagger that pierced his shoulder was wickedly sharp. He felt it grating against bone and the nauseating pulse of blood down his back. 

The wind exploded from him before he even formed the thought. Men, both enemy and ally, toppled over. Nicolò shuddered and gripped his hilt so tight his knuckles turned white. _I am real, I am here_. He felt the magic trying to heal his shoulder. The blade was still in him and he could feel his skin trying to worm around it. He wrenched his arm back, gritting his teeth against the pain, but it was at such an angle he could not reach around to the blade and pull it free.

He spun, grimacing at the pull in his shoulder. The man who attacked him was still on the floor but his eyes, bright, intelligent eyes, were locked on Nicolò. His hair had fallen free from a brightly coloured turban stained with flecks of blood. Blood was smeared down his cheek, running into his dark beard. He pushed himself up from the ground. He was slightly taller than Nicolò, but not as broad in the shoulder. He wiped at his mouth and his hand came away red. Nicolò could feel the sharp hiss of breath between his teeth.

The man muttered under his breath. Nicolò called the words on the wind; the language sounded familiar, but he only knew a handful of the words. There was something in this man, similar to the clerics but it didn’t burn like their fire. It felt warm, but soothing; like blowing over a sun-drenched beach or stepping into the hot baths in Constantinopolis with Sebastien. The man gripped at a pendant around his neck and raised his hand towards Nicolò.

The dark haired man spoke again and the pain in Nicolò’s side burned to life. 

The man smiled as Nicolò stumbled, his teeth flashing white against his beard. Nicolò pressed his shield arm close to his aching side. The pressure helped as he slowly circled the mage. The other man adjusted the grip on his sword and began to speak again.

Nicolò did not let him finish. He darted forward and thrust his sword at the other man’s chest. His opponent opened his eyes wide and barely managed to block the strike. They moved around each other slowly, the tiredness of their limbs evident in the slow movements. The air was thick with smoke and dust and blood. Nicolò’s shoulder, thankfully his shield arm, ached and scratched as he moved. The man’s movements were jerky and thus his attempts to slash at Nicolò hard to follow.

They were both panting, chests heaving as they moved. The battle had moved forward but they stayed. Occasionally, the darker man’s blade would slash too close to Nicolò’s arm. The wounds were slow to heal. He needed rest. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he could barely call upon the wind. He was spent.

It was luck, pure, unexpected luck, that won the battle. The defender and him were evenly matched both in skill and tiredness. It was a small, insignificant rock that caught under the other man’s boots. In the moment he took to regain his balance, his heavy arms wavering in the air, Nicolò had him. He thrust at his open side and his sword pierced through cloth and flesh and bone. 

The small grunt from the wounded man was the only noise he made. It seemed to echo in Nicolò’s ears alongside the pounding of his own blood.

Nicolò caught the man under his armpits, his sword impaled through the other man’s stomach. The Muslim fell heavily and Nicolò lowered him to the ground slowly. The mage was whispering again, even as the blood frothed on his lips. Nicolò leaned his head down. A man’s last words deserved to be heard.

The words were soft, almost lost in the sound of a dying city, but Nicolò heard them nonetheless. He could not easily parse the language; he had heard on the long trek here but never took the time to commit it to memory. Nicolò looked at the man, warm and limp in his arms with a furrowed brow. The dying man’s eyelids fluttered. Deep brown irises stared up at Nicolò, glazed and distant. Nicolò saw some emotion he could not name.

The man reached up, wiping his bloodied palm along Nicolò’s cheek. 

‘Be … free …’ He whispered, switching to a new language. Nicolò stared at him in horror. Nicolò _knew_ this language; this was the language of men on the docks and markets back from his home. The man swallowed, his heart rabbiting against Nicolò’s palm. ‘I set you free.’

Nicolò had a name now, for the emotion in those eyes. It was the same look Sebastien had when he thought Nicolò was not looking. It was the look the young cleric, with the soft blue eyes, gave when the spells were renewed on Nicolò’s vessel. Nicolò knew pity and he hated it.

He pressed his own bloodied hands to the man’s stomach. He scrambled his fingers against the meeting of skin and iron and he did something he had never done.

He prayed. 

Neither Nicolò nor the storm with no name had ever seen a reason to before. But he did now; he prayed for the man in his arms. He had needlessly taken life, too many to count and this one in particular, and he wished to give it back. Bile rose in his throat at the violence he had wrought here and at Nicea. Each and every death on his hands committed for a faith that was not his. He was a creature of water and winds. He did not belong here. 

This man had tried to free him. And Nicolò, the storm that raged and could not die, had killed him instead. This man should have lived.

Nicolò was heavy, so heavy, with all the souls resting against his own. Mother Sky would be horrified at his stained hands. If he were to call a storm, it would rain down blood for all the atrocities he had committed.

He did not believe in a God to hear him. He knew nothing of the sand spirits that should walk this land but had abandoned it under the march of thousands. But something heard him. A barely whispered spell of freedom and wanting. Magic, half formed and potent in its own right.

The air changed so suddenly, his ears popped. It felt like being in the middle of a tempest, a strike of lightning pressed against his breast bone. It was both hot and cold and vibrated to the ends of his fingers. Even the storm inside him quieted. The winds watched and waited. Nicolò gasped, his lungs squeezed so sharply there was no _air._ And then the world went black.


	4. when there is nothing else to lose

The sun was drooping and beginning its slow descent towards the horizon. Yusuf walked along cooling side streets as the shadows lengthened. He trailed his hand along the walls, tracing the divots and cracks. He recognised them as his hands followed the well-worn path. He knew these buildings and streets as surely as he knew his own name. He had walked them for years, escaped the cruel high noon sun in the shadows, ran giggling between the doorways with his siblings. He drew in a deep breath and he could smell the salt in the air. He heard the cry of seagulls.

He was home. _Tunis_.

He was not certain where he was headed until he saw the bright yellow door, as though it had been painted yesterday. He saw the flash of light in the corner of his eye and could not bite back a smile. The entry hall was dark. He shuddered at the feel of cool tile under his bare feet, though he did not remember taking off his shoes. He gently touched the break in the plaster, where Karina had swung a toy in a childhood tantrum. His mother had never fixed it and the ache in his chest felt overpowering.

His legs did not let him linger and he found himself in the doorway to the kitchen. His mother, Fatima, was cooking. He watched her chopping onions, her hands moving swiftly as she worked. She did not look at him. He leaned against the door, his arms across his chest, emotions welling in his chest. When had he last looked upon his mother? Eight years? Nine? The night before he'd left for al-Qahira with his uncle.

He had sobbed for three full days when the letter had arrived. He thought he'd never get to look upon her again in this life. He praised Allah for his last moments to be this memory of her.

He breathed deeply; the room smelled of cooking, herbs, and spices. He could pick out the coriander and cumin in the air, and the sharp acrid and harsh scent of her magic. He looked at her fingertips, saw the soft glowing residue of fading magic.

‘You are early?’ She dropped the cut vegetables into a pot then turned to him with a smile. _No mother, I am so very late._

‘Am I? Could I not just want to see my gorgeous mother?’ He darted close to wipe a dash of flour from her cheek with his thumb and kissed her forehead. She swatted him away, laying herbs under her knife. 

'Why are you here, Yusuf?'

'Mama, I-' The words caught in his throat. _Why was he here?_ He tried again, his mouth opening and snapping shut. _A sword. Sharp and tearing. Pale, washed out eyes._ The words pressed against his teeth but he could not form them on his tongue. 

She fixed him with a look that he knew well as she scraped the herbs from her board. With precise movements, she stoked the fire before turning to her son. ‘You should not be here.’ 

‘Mama, I think …’ _I think I died_. She read him easily, as she always did, and her face softened.

‘My heart.’ She opened her arms and he went willingly. The smell of herbs and spices were stronger in her hair. But also the smell of her perfume and _her_. ‘I carried you. I _know_ you, Yusuf. And you should not be here. It is not time.’ 

Her voice was steady, but he could feel the tremors in her shoulders. His arms tightened around her back reflexively. She pulled back to look at him. She cupped his face in her hands. He committed the feeling of her hands to memory. He poured his love and care into this moment in the hopes that somehow, by some miracle, she could feel him. 

'You must go now.' Her voice was soft but stern. He felt as a child again, caught trying to sneak sweets before dinner. 'You must go Yusuf. It is not your time yet. Go, my heart.' Her lips brushed his cheek. 

‘ _Go.’_

\-----

Yusuf gasped awake. The sudden movement made his head pound. His whole body ached; the usual aftereffect of burning through his magic for so long. How unfair to still ache once one was dead. 

_Dead._ The word stuck in his thoughts. His hands flew to his stomach automatically. His fingers slipped through the tear in his armour and tunic, but found whole, unblemished skin. He looked at his hands and then at the blood-soaked scar in his clothes.

He remembered the feeling of steel piercing his skin. He remembered pain so sharp it forced the air from his lungs. He remembered _dying_. How was he here, now, aching?

He looked around, trying to make sense of his thoughts. He was in the desert, the soft glow of dawn creeping along the horizon. There was a soft cloak underneath him, but it was not his own. He could see smoke and fire in the distance, but was far enough away to not hear shouting or screams. He felt almost deaf in the quiet after so long at war. How long had it been since the battle? 

He closed his eyes and tried to cast back for his last memory. Was it the morning after? Two days? A week? Time, it seemed, became hard to grasp when one was dead. He wished to be back at his mother’s house, even if it was not real. Anywhere but here, somewhere in a desert that was not his home, and very much not alone.

The Frankish man that had murdered him, kidnapped him, and possibly barred his entrance to heaven, was crouched across from him in the sand. He held Yusuf’s sword in his lap and watched him with large, too pale eyes.

‘I should be dead.’ Yusuf croaked as he opened his eyes. The man just watched him. Even as tired and wounded as Yusuf was, he could see the faint tinge of magic dancing along the other man's skin. He seemed human in shape but there was power hidden inside him. Yusuf could feel it buzzing against his senses.

‘Why am I not dead?’ Yusuf tried again. The man cocked his head to the side and slowly shook it. He said something, too fast for Yusuf to grasp and definitely not in Arabic. 

Yusuf only knew a passing bit of the invader’s tongues. His head hurt and what little he knew refused to settle in his thoughts. He didn’t think he could translate what he wanted. He tried his rusty Greek to the same confused look from the other man. He settled, finally, on Sabir; he’d been speaking it for so many years it was easier to find his words. ‘Why am I not dead?’ The man, the _being,_ furrowed his brow and bit his lip. He spoke again in the Frankish tongue, slower this time.

Yusuf groaned and dragged his hands over his face. This was going to take a long time if they couldn’t understand each other. 

‘You … were …’ The other man began slowly in Sabir. Yusuf’s eyes shot open. The man was suddenly very close and Yusuf instinctually recoiled. The Frank’s accent was slightly wrong and Yusuf had to concentrate with a pounding headache. The other man seemed to understand better than he could speak. That was something at least. ‘I hurt you.’ The man reached out and pressed gently against Yusuf’s stomach. Yusuf winced. He knew the wound was gone, but he could still feel the ghost of the man’s blade in his skin. The man pulled his hand away and shuffled back. He looked at Yusuf. 'You want to free me?' He asked. Yusuf nodded.

'They trapped you.'

‘How did you know?’

‘You look,’ Yusuf hesitated. How did he explain? ‘You look wrong, as if there is more to you. You’re too bright. I have seen it before, or something similar. And also the marks.’ Yusuf gestured to the man’s side. ‘I can see the marks on you.’ The other man bit his lip again.

‘You are made with fire in you.’ The man said. Yusuf looked at him blankly. The man huffed and mumbled something quickly in his own language. With a glare, he threw his arms out. ‘You are made with fire.’ He punctuated his words with hand gestures: pointing to Yusuf, indicating his own heart and flicking his fingers in a manner that reminded Yusuf painfully of Malik.

‘I understood your words, I just don’t know what you’re trying to say.”

“Like men who made mark.” He waved his hand at his side.

“Men with magic. Mages.’

‘Yes. Mages.’ The man smiled and Yusuf was momentarily stunned by the way it lit up his face. ‘I understand you. I cannot think! Ah, I do not know to speak the words. You are like … sun!’ The man carried on with his ridiculous hand gestures. This time he cupped his hands into a ball over his head and Yusuf had to snort at the absurdity; he was a dead man, talking to a spirit trapped in a human body with gestures and half-remembered Sabir. The man watched him and flashed a small grin back.

‘Yes, I have magic.’ Yusuf repeated the flickering fingers hand gesture and pointed to himself. ‘It’s how I can see you. What are you?’ 

'Not mage.'

'No, I know. But I don’t know _what_ you are.’ The man opened and closed his mouth once, twice, thrice before tightening his jaw and glaring at the sand. He obviously couldn't find the words. Yusuf felt a prickle of pity. He pointed to his own chest and said gently, 'It's alright. I'm Yusuf.’ He pointed again to the other man.

The man splayed his hand against his own chest. ‘Nicolò.’

‘Nicolò.’ Yusuf repeated, letting the strange vowels roll on his tongue. Nicolò nodded enthusiastically. It was so earnest that Yusuf felt his own lips twitch upwards. ‘Alright, where are we Nicolò?’ Nicolò’s face darkened for a moment. He passed his tongue over his lower lip and Yusuf could see him trying to formulate the words.

‘Not far from city.’ Nicolò made the sign of the cross; _holy city._ ‘Needed to get you away.’ 

‘Thank you.’ Yusuf had no doubt what fate would have awaited him inside the walls, gravely injured as he had been. Nicolò nodded. He hesitated a moment before slowly holding Yusuf’s sword out to him. Yusuf reached out haltingly, waiting for Nicolò to change his mind and snatch it back. He did not. 

‘Why are you giving me this?’ Yusuf asked softly, his knuckles white on the hilt. He angled the blade across his knees.

’You are not what they say. Men lie.’ The man’s eyes changed colour, Yusuf noticed, with his emotions. They were dark grey now, like the sea before a storm.

‘Yes, men do.’ He briefly wondered what sort of creature Nicolò had been, that held such distaste for lies. ‘But thank you, for my sword and for getting me away from there.’

‘Thank you, Yusuf.’ Nicolò said. They sat for a moment more, the silence building uncomfortably between them. Yusuf shifted uneasily.

The man leaned forward again. ‘Can you do your magic again? To free me?’ 

Yusuf looked at him, startled. He remembered the starting of the spell during their fight and the way the words felt like mud on his tongue. He had been so tired, so drained, that attempting a spell of that nature had been foolhardy at best and idiotic at worst.

Yusuf turned, stared at the thin column of smoke still rising in the sky. Witches’ fire, no doubt. Burning hot and endlessly until the mages decided to end it. Yusuf turned back to the man in front of him. Nicolò asked to be free. If Yusuf refused, was he any different from the Frankish As he continued the chant, he could sense the other man sitting rigidly across from him. He bastards who had trapped him to begin with? 

_Can you do your magic again? To free me?_

Nicolò had fought and killed men; undoubtedly even more than Yusuf knew. He had marched with the invaders and he had wounded Yusuf with the intent to kill. Yusuf believed he _had_ died. He was still uncertain how such a wound could be healed. Was that Nicolò’s doing? Had he not also saved Yusuf? Nicolò had cradled Yusuf gently to the Earth and listened to what Yusuf had thought would be his dying words. Nicolò took Yusuf from the burning city. 

‘Yes, I think I could. I just - I need a moment.’ Yusuf laid his sword down and settled himself. Nicolò sat and crossed his legs to mimic Yusuf.

Yusuf fell into the steady inhale and exhale pattern his mother had taught him. He did not need it normally to cast, but he enjoyed the calmness of it. Nicolò watched him intently, those unnaturally pale eyes missing nothing. Yusuf always thought of his magic as a well of power within himself, to be drawn out and shaped by the words of the spell. After spending the last month on the wall helping with the spell shield, he knew his gift would be low. So he began the spell slowly, testing the edges of his reserves. He felt the words settle on his tongue, felt the power rise through his hands. He knew that if he looked, he would see the flash of his own powers across his fingers.

As he continued the chant, Yusuf could sense the other man sitting rigidly across from him. He could hear Nicolò breathing, the sound as the air moved from his lungs. Yusuf had never felt so aware of another. He could not pinpoint when Nicolò breathing matched to his own. _Inhale, hold, exhale_. It steadied Yusuf.

The spell began to build. He should still require rest and time to be back at full strength, and yet he felt _powerful._ He could sense the early morning breeze moving across his skin. He took a deep breath, enjoyed the feel of the open air in his lungs. Nicolò’s breath changed with his. He realised they had been staring at one another, their gazes locked.

The words of the spell curled around his tongue. They fought to escape him. He dragged them back. _Inhale, hold, exhale._ He built them again, carefully, carefully, until they swelled. They tried to break away again, wriggling against his teeth and lips. One slipped out, a tiny, shivering discordant note in the cool morning air. He tried to drag them back again, but they would not come. His hands tangled in his lap. His breath changed, became ragged as he gasped around the words. Nicolò gasped too.

The spell grew. He felt the draw of the power, pushing the edges of his spell out of shape. His temples throbbed. He tried to close his mouth, cut the spell off. But he could not. His eyes widened. His heart beat faster, galloping along to the pace of the spell. The words should not have this potency. He should not have the power to gift to them. But he was unable to stop them as they tumbled from his lips on their own accord.

 _Free, free, free!_ He could see fear reflected back in Nicolò’s face. The words were flying from his lips now, whirling away like leaves on the wind. He wanted to scream but he no longer had his own voice.

For one, terrifyingly clear moment, Yusuf was reminded of being a child again. His brother had dared him to climb a tall tree and he had slipped barely a handbreadth away from the top. As he fell, he had the same disorientating sensation of knowing he was moving, watching the ground come closer and closer, but feeling as though he was floating.

Wind tugged at his hair and clothes. Sand whirled up around them, obscuring Nicolò’s face. _His eyes are green when he is scared_ , was the last thought Yusuf had before he collapsed.

Yusuf’s eyes opened to Nicolò’s terrified face staring down at him. Yusuf muttered that this was becoming a habit between them in Derja. Nicolò tightened his jaw but clearly did not understand the language. Nicolò helped Yusuf to sit up, his hands warm on Yusuf’s skin even through his clothes. When Yusuf was upright, Nicolò backed away again. Yusuf watched with concern as the other man winced, his arms held stiffly out from his body. Nicolò was avoiding his left side, the side with spell runes. Yusuf felt ill at the thought he had caused the spirit more, unnecessary pain.

‘That should not have happened.’ Yusuf whispered, more to himself than Nicolò. ‘Whatever the spell should have done, it should not have done that. The words … I cannot explain.’ Yusuf had used the spell before; to free a trapped bird or mouse. Once, he even used it to free a rather petulant spirit from a lamp. Yes, it was a complicated spell but he was a strong mage. He had never had a spell try to escape from him before.

‘It did not work.’ Nicolò twisted, clearly trying to keep his tunic from touching his side. 

Yusuf must have made some noise. Those damned pale eyes met his; the exhaustion, pain, and fear was clear in them. 

‘I am sorry Nicolò. I wish … I am sorry.’ Yusuf watched Nicolò’s shoulders sag and felt it as a physical tightness in his own chest. ‘But someone might have noticed. We should carry on from, er, where exactly are we?’

‘When I left the city, the sun set on our side.’ Nicolò indicated his right side. ‘As we left, I put you on the horse. You were heavy.’ Nicolò ducked his head as if he expected to be chastised. A faint blush crawled up his cheeks. Yusuf blinked at him. He scanned their surroundings again. 

'You brought a horse?' Nicolò nodded. 'Where is the horse?'

‘It was-’ Nicolò looked behind him and frowned. He looked at the piles of sand around them. He turned the other way then back again. His eyes shifted colours in the early morning light. ‘It was just over there. When it seemed tired, I got you down and left it there.’

Yusf groaned. ‘And then I misspoke a freedom spell.’ Nicolò stared at him for a moment and then muttered in the Frankish tongue. Yusuf did not need to speak the language to know a swear when he heard it. ‘I don’t suppose you remembered to remove the saddle bags?’

Nicolò smiled, a small, tentative thing that made Yusuf’s heart knock uncomfortably in his chest. ‘Yes.’ He moved to the side to show the bags piled behind his back.

‘Thank God.’ Yusuf stood and tied his sword around his belt. He held his hand out to Nicolò. Nicolò stared at it for a moment before clasping it and Yusuf pulled him to standing. 


	5. to be carried along by you

Nicolò watched, uncertain, as Yusuf laid out his coat and kneeled. Nicolò could not understand Yusuf’s whispered words but he knew the cadence of them. Nicolò remembered his own desperate pleas over Yusuf’s bleeding body and the storm knocking about his ribs. He forced himself to turn away.

He could not deny that he had carried Yusuf from the wreckage of the city and ferried him out on a stolen horse for less than altruistic reasons. Nicolò had saved Yusuf to assuage his own guilt and, even more shamefully, in the hope that the mage could aid him. After the second attempt at the spell had failed, Nicolò knew he had no reason to stay. But Yusuf knew the desert and these lands. 

So when Yusuf headed off, Nicolò followed.

\---

Yusuf was extremely apologetic about the horse. He explained that it would delay their journey away from the holy land considerably. Nicolò shrugged. He had not expected to make the journey by land and feet. He had hoped to fly above it, free again as the wind. Nicolò assured him multiple times that he did not hold it against Yusuf. He never found the time to explain that it had not been his horse and he did not even know how to ride one. 

Nicolò was less worried about the horse and more concerned about his growing dependence on the mage from Jerusalem. Nicolò did not know where he was or where to go. Sebastien had been his only friend and Nicolò did not know what had befallen him in the Holy City. To return to the Christians now would mean more bindings, more demands. The storm could not go back and be trapped. 

But the mage, the man called Yusuf, had tried to free Nicolò twice. He did not stop Nicolò from following him. He allowed Nicolò to carry half the water and food in his own bags, a sign of trust that Nicolò was not certain he had earned. There was some cautious understanding strung between them, as gentle and fragile as the new blossoms of spring.

Seedlings, Nicolò knew, needed water and time. Yet he had no idea how to nourish such growth. Sebastien had been Nicolò’s only meaningful relationship these long, earthbound years, and the other man had initiated and carried on the friendship. 

Yusuf was not _unkind_. Nicolò did not think the man had it in him to be unkind. But he did not try to engage Nicolò in conversation either. And so they walked in silence. After years with Sebastien’s gentle needling and patient reminders, Nicolò felt lost. 

They walked for hours, in no pattern or path that Nicolò could see. They stopped when the sun was high overhead. Yusuf directed him to the cool space between two rocks and Nicolò sat gratefully. Yusuf scrubbed his hands and his face with sand and then knelt in the shadows of the rocks. Nicolò watched with hazy eyes as Yusuf began again the complicated series of movements from the morning, his voice low and urgent.

Nicolò averted his gaze again.

When Yusuf finished, he moved them on. They walked. And walked. Yusuf carried on towards a destination only he seemed to know.

Nicolò felt the sun as a physical scrape against his skin. The blood and viscera from his time in battle has dried under his nails and in his hair. It itched and flaked and dropped from his body as his skin burned, peeled, and healed. As the sun faded into the horizon, Nicolò faded with it.

Nicolò staggered, his foot catching on the sinking sand. A surprised noise toppled from his mouth as he found himself on his knees.

Hands grasped him, tilted his head up and he stared into Yusuf’s brown eyes. 

‘Are you hurt?’ Yusuf looked at him properly, his eyes moving over Nicolò’s body. Nicolò felt the urge to cover himself. This man _saw_ him. ‘When did you last drink Nicolò? When did you last eat?’

‘I …’ Nicolò winced. ‘I do not remember.’

‘You do not remember? When were you last thirsty?’

Nicolò tried to bring to mind the sensation of thirst. He felt as though he had been thirsty as long as he had been in this body. He needed a good rain storm. There was no rain here. 

‘I don’t remember.’

‘How can one not know they are thirsty?’ Yusuf asked, incredulous. He pressed a hand to Nicolò's forehead and rubbed a thumb over Nicolò’s chapped lips.

‘Sebastien would tell me.’ Nicolò shrugged. It was as it had always been. 

‘I suppose that’s my job now too, hmm? To tell you to eat and drink?’ His words were harsh, but his hands on Nicolò were gentle. With a sigh, Yusuf opened his satchel and offered Nicolò a water skin. ‘Slowly.’ Nicolò obeyed. Yusuf stayed close to him, carefully rationing the water. Yusuf had freckles dusted across his nose.

‘Your bodies are fragile. They need so much.’ Yusuf snorted. Nicolò watched the crinkles at the corner of his eyes with wonder.

‘I think it is time for a break and for something to eat.’ Yusuf said softly. Nicolò nodded. Yusuf dug dried meat from the stolen saddle bags and offered some to Nicolò. When Nicolò accepted it, Yusuf frowned at the blood caked along Nicolò’s knuckles.

‘I- it is not- it is not all yours.’ Nicolò winced. Yusuf took his hand gently, allowing Nicolò the chance to pull away if he wished. When Nicolò did not, Yusuf began to rub sand along Nicolò’s fingers, in the same manner Yusuf had done before he prayed. 

‘It is not the most enjoyable, but it will do for now.’ Yusuf said. Nicolò tried to focus on the feel of Yusuf’s nimble fingers sliding against his own and the scrape and pull of sand on his skin. The other man said nothing as he cleaned the blood from Nicolò’s hands. 

Yusuf stood when he finished and packed away their food and water. Nicolò sat for a moment more, his hands tingling.

Nicolò felt the brittle peace bloom and he tucked it safely away in his heart. 

\---

It was some days into their tentative truce that they came upon a shallow stream in the rising heat of the day. Nicolò shouted and ran into the water, diving into it as a child would. Yusuf laughed, following him at a more sedate pace.

‘You are a creature of water then?’ Yusuf asked. He carefully filled their water skins upstream of Nicolò’s splashing. Nicolò surfaced, slicking his hair back from his face. With the water full, Yusuf sat on an outcropping of rocks and began untying his turban and stripping his boots. Nicolò looked up at him, slightly chagrined to realise he was still fully clothed.

Nicolò splashed out of the water and sat to remove his sopping wet boots with a huff. ‘Storms, I think you would say. Rain, lightning, and wind.’ He struggled to find words to describe what he had been before this. Sailors talked of storms, good winds, and rain. He knew these words, but not how to say he had called them from the sky. Yusuf understood it did not work in the way of human mages, but not that he _was_ these things. He had no words for the storm that raged against his chest or how he felt the other man shift in the night because the wind drew the sounds to him.

He did not know how to explain to Yusuf the feeling of being _so much_ in so tight a space.

‘A rainstorm would be nice,’ Yusuf replied. He was content to take what words Nicolò could fashion and wait for the rest. Nicolò was ever thankful for his patience and tossed his drenched clothes on the ground. Yusuf called, ‘no, Nicolò! They will never dry like that. Twist the water out and lay them flat.’ Yusuf reached over and placed his hands on top of Nicolò’s to show him to wring out his over-tunic. 

Nicolò felt a fluttering in his stomach that was not the storm. ‘It is very dry here. My roost was over the coast near Genova. Do you know of it?’

‘I do. I was there once, a long time ago.’ Yusuf finished folding his clothes carefully in a pile before sliding into the water with a sigh.

‘How long? Perhaps I saw you at the docks?’

‘I was quite young, only about sixteen summers. It was one of my first trips with my father. We were merely across a sea from home, and I was so amazed by how similar but also how different things could be.’ Yusuf dipped his head back and worked his fingers through his curls. ‘Would you have been there then?’

‘How many years past was it?’ Nicolò asked as he slid back into the water, unclothed this time. 

Yusuf laughed; a small, soft thing. Nicolò was instantly taken with it. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t know. Seventeen years ago.’

‘I have flown over that land since before there was a port.’ Yusuf stood upright suddenly. Water dripped down his hair and across his chest. He stared dumbly at Nicolò. 

‘But we look to be the same age.’

‘One of the clerics told me that this man was thirty years old when he died.’

‘Of course,’ Yusuf muttered, his eyes raking up Nicolò’s naked chest. ‘ _that man_. How old are you, though? I mean, _you._ The storm you were?’

‘I did not measure it the manner as mortals did.’ Nicolò crossed his arms over his chest. He felt unsettled under the intensity of Yusuf’s gaze. The clerics had strange rules about being clothed and the dark letters down his side made his fellow soldiers uncomfortable in the baths. Only Sebastien seemed unfazed by his body. Nicolò did not waste much thought on his vessel, beyond that it was a wall that kept him trapped. 

He wondered what Yusuf saw. Did he see the broad shoulders, the sloping waist, the bones that stuck out and scraped painfully against his skin after years of hunger and thirst? Did he see the dark scarring of magic along his side? Did Yusuf see _him_ , or rather, the storm with no name inside him?

Yusuf noticed the way Nicolò covered himself and pulled back. ‘I am sorry, I did not think.’ He ran his hands through his curls and turned his head away. He muttered a number of things in his tongue, too quiet for Nicolò to catch. After a moment, Nicolò uncurled. ‘It- it is a lot to take in. That you have lived for so long.’ 

‘I understand. I found it hard at first too.’

‘You said … you said the man died at thirty?’ 

‘That was what I was told.’ Nicolò wrung the water from his hair.

‘So it was an empty vessel?’ There was a tone to Yusuf’s question that Nicolò could not pin down; concerned perhaps or mournful? Nicolò looked at his hands, turning them over in the clear water. The blood washed from his skin as though it had never been. _His vessel’s skin_ , he thought.

‘Yes, it was always just the storm inside here.’ His lungs were too small again and hard to fill. But they were his and his alone to fill. He splashed water on his face to hide the blush on his cheeks.

‘Could I -’ Yusuf glanced over and then quickly away. ‘Could I look at the spell runes upon your side?’

‘Do you need to rework them?’

‘Rework them?’ Yusuf asked, turning to face Nicolò with a furrowed brow.

‘The clerics would write them again and again. They said it was to stop the body … to keep this vessel from - ack.’ Nicolò could not think of the word in Sabir. He offered it in the Frankish tongue but Yusuf shook his head slowly. ‘To keep me in?’ 

‘I am not sure, but perhaps if I could see them? If you don’t mind?’

Nicolò stepped to the edge of the water, allowing the whole tattoo along his side to be visible. Yusuf followed. He did not touch Nicolò’s skin until the paler man nodded. Yusuf’s hands made Nicolò shiver, still cold and wet from the stream. Yusuf murmured an apology under his breath as he traced the runes on Nicolò’s skin.

Nicolò watched him through his lashes. He had been touched before, of course. The clerics touched him, Sebastien put comforting hands upon him, and in battle, touching was inevitable. But this was so very different from any touch before. There was no silent demand or question. Yusuf brushed along Nicolò’s skin delicately, his touch light and almost reverent. Yusuf was muttering again, in a language Nicolò did not know.

‘I don’t know why they would have needed to redo them. They look as though they should hold up well. Unless your spirit is stronger than I think it is.’ He looked up at Nicolò and realised how close they were standing. Nicolò felt the sharp inhale of breath and the exhale over his chest. ‘I can’t see why the spell did not work to free you. Though I am struggling to read the end of the spell. The ones here.’ Yusuf’s hand pressed flat and hot against Nicolò’s hip.

The strange sensation of Yusuf's hand distracted Nicolò but his mind did register Yusuf's words in time. Nicolò snapped his head down.

A week ago, when the Christian mages last renewed the spell to trap the storm, Nicolò did not have runes on his hip. The spell carved into his skin again and again ended just below his ribs. Yusuf moved his hands and Nicolò brushed his fingers over the raised marks. There were three new symbols, dark and thick against his skin. He had not seen his body uncovered since the fall of Jerusalem. These were new since then. Since he had met Yusuf.

Nicolò’s throat felt dry but it was not from thirst. ‘So you trying again will not work?’

‘No, I am sorry, there is something here I cannot work out. I cannot undo this for you.’ Yusuf stepped away and Nicolò was cold, far more than he should be. His knees knocked together as he shivered. 

‘You do not have to be sorry.’ Their hands hung close to one another. It would be a simple thing, to reach across and take Yusuf’s hand. Nicolò wondered what it would feel like to touch Yusuf with no intention of violence. Nicolò felt the ghost of Sebastien’s wide palm on his shoulder. 

‘We might be able to find someone else who knows a spell that could help. Though those who would know best are back the way we came.’

‘They will not free me,’ Nicolò said.

‘Do you have plans? For where you will go?’

‘I follow you.’ Even as he said it, doubt settled heavy and sour in Nicolo's stomach. If Yusuf wished to abandon him-

‘I know Nicolò. But I intend to go home, see my sisters again. That is far and there is no need for you to travel all the way to Tunis.'

'Your home is not …?'

'No, it is not. I was … _am_ a merchant. I had the unfortunate luck to be trapped by an invading army,' Yusuf said dryly. Nicolò felt the shame burn in his gut, bright and painful. 'It would be quickest to continue my journey by sea. You could also find a ship, if you wished to return to Genova.’

Nicolò had thought of parting ways with Yusuf, back on the first day when his spell had failed, but dismissed it. Now the very idea filled him with dread. ‘There is nothing for me there. Not like this.’

Yusuf hummed.

‘If you would like, there is one of my old tutors in al-Qahira. It would not be difficult to stop there. He is a skilled mage. And beyond that, he is in possession of a large magical library. He has untold spells at his disposal. He might be able to help us.’

_Us._

‘Are you asking if I will come with you?’ Nicolò willed the wind in his stomach to settle.

‘Only until al-Qahira. I think my friend may be able to help you. He could read the runes and set you free. If not, we could think of something else.’

‘That would … thank you, Yusuf.’ 

Yusuf smiled and it was blinding. Nicolò was not certain if any man had smiled so broadly and joyously at him before. ‘Good. That will be ... good,’ Yusuf replied and squinted up at the sky. ‘We should clean the blood from the clothes, if we can, and let them dry. It will be the hottest time of the day soon and that should speed things along.’

Nicolò nodded and headed towards the bank to grab his clothes. He felt calmed, finally knowing which way the wind was blowing.


	6. the eye of the storm

Yusuf had travelled through many deserts as he traded his father’s wares and his uncle’s secrets. Normally, however, he traveled in a caravan with a retinue of guards and servants, along well known roads. He was unused to long treks through the winding scrubland and low hills on foot. His boots, praise Allah, did not pinch his feet over much and he wound his turban in such a way as to provide shade for his face and neck, however the other clothes he had been wearing during the siege were not suitable for a prolonged journey in this heat. The thick, padded, gambeson was heavy and hot and the tunic ripped and ragged. He thought of the fine silks and linens burning to ash behind them. 

The one stroke of luck to be had was the reasonably stocked saddle bags Nicolò had kept when the horse bolted. Their rations had lasted them unnaturally long as Nicolò ate precious little and, after a month under siege, Yusuf had grown accustomed to the ache of an unfilled belly. They lasted them until just outside of Ayla where Yusuf managed to trade a day’s hard labour for more supplies.

Even so, Yusuf knew they would need to find more food soon, as well as something worth trading. He eyed the horizon and thought back on the maps Uncle had made him memorise. They were slow and taking less worn paths, in deference to his travelling companion’s peculiarity, but Yusuf knew there were small villages dotted along the trade route to Qatya. 

'We should rest here, I need to pray,' Yusuf called. Nicolò had been walking some twenty steps behind him. Nicolò waved to show he understood as Yusuf dropped his bags and laid out his stolen cloak as a mat before carefully performing tayammum.

‘Are we far from al-Qahira now?’ Nicolò asked when Yusuf finished salat. Nicolò had unpacked the food and water while Yusuf prayed. He handed Yusuf a hardened edge of bread.

‘Thank you. And still a fair ways away. Perhaps another week or ten days if the weather holds. Sand storms are not uncommon along this path. What are you doing?’ Yusuf eyed up the other man. Nicolò scrubbed angrily at his nose, the skin already reddened and peeling again. He hissed as his fingernail caught on the raw flesh.

‘It itches,’ Nicolò pouted. Yusuf laughed.

‘Your mages did you no favours with your healing spells. Your skin has no time to darken. Come here.’ Yusuf gestured Nicolò over and unwound his turban. He took his dagger and cut the edge before tearing the fabric and holding half out to Nicolò.

‘Was that not… for your faith?’ Nicolò asked. Yusuf eyebrows raised in surprise. Nicolò’s red cheeks darkened. ‘You put it on before your morning prayers. I had thought. Some of the women, back in Genova, would cover their hair before ceremonies and the women here-’ Nicolò offered a shrug.

'Some do choose to cover their head during prayer, yes.’ Yusuf looked at the fabric with a small smile. Nicolò took the wrap from Yusuf’s hands, but held it awkwardly, looking lost. Yusuf sighed. ‘It is also useful, in the desert heat, to cover one’s face. Come, I will show you.’ 

Nicolò sat unnaturally still as Yusuf showed him how to twist it round his hair and neck. In half like this, it was too short to be a proper covering, but would do well enough to keep the sun from Nicolò’s skin. Nicolò looked strange with the scarf wrapped around his head but Yusuf tried not to laugh. With his face covered, he was less identifiable as a Frankish invader, even if his indescribably pale eyes gave him away.

‘Do you truly think this will be helpful?’ Nicolò asked.

‘It should stop you burning at all hours of the day, yes. And it may be wise to cover your skin anyway. I would not consider you out of place in al-Qahira, but it will help as we see more people on our way. Come now, let us carry on,’ Yusuf said as he stood and dusted off his knees. Nicolò picked at his veil, disliking how it clung to his mouth and nose. ‘Stop messing with it, Nicolò.’

‘It itches worse. It gathers the sand and rubs it against my chin and one cannot breathe properly.’ 

‘Your accent in Arabic is coming along nicely,’ Yusuf remarked casually, hiding a smile. Nicolò glared at him.

‘I had no reason to speak in the sky, Yusuf. But how you survive with your tiny lungs I will never know. I used to move ships and for three years I have only had this much to breathe.’ Nicolò held his palms on either side of his chest to demonstrate. ‘That is barely enough to knock over a… a cup!’ He declared tossing his hands up. 

Yusuf stared at him for a moment before throwing his head back in laughter.

‘A cup, Nicolò? A cup?’

‘I couldn’t… I cannot think of something appropriately small! I have not tried to knock anything down because I would become too dizzy to even try! Stop laughing. Yusuf, stop laughing at me.’ 

Yusuf bit his lip to try to keep from laughing again but Nicolò looked so aggrieved, his large blue-green eyes staring back at Yusuf from between the wrap that Yusuf couldn’t help it. First one giggle, then a second, until he was curled in upon himself and crying tears of mirth.

‘You are insufferable,’ Nicolò mumbled under his breath. 

‘I am sorry Nico. You are quite right. My lungs could not fill a sail.’ Yusuf wiped at his cheeks and tried to keep his face straight, even as a smile tickled his lips. 

‘Are you quite finished?’ Nicolò turned and walked away before waiting for an answer. Yusuf snorted as he raced to catch up with him.

\---

One evening, Yusuf spent an extra moment on his mat after ‘Isha, his forehead pressed to the ground. He let the serenity of the prayer wash over him and listened to the now comforting sounds of Nicolò marking out their camp. It surprised Yusuf how quickly he had become used to the other man’s presence. His life had taken many unexpected turns before now, but journeying through the desert with a trapped Genovese spirit was most unexpected. Yusuf sent one further silent prayer that he and his teacher could free the storm inside of Nicolò.

‘Yusuf, will we reach another village soon? We need food,’ Nicolò stated, rousing Yusuf from his contemplation. Nicolò had piled together dry brush and sticks and sat nearby, checking through their supplies. Yusuf wandered over and lit the fire with a simple spell.

'Oh? I thought it should last a few more days if we are careful.’ Yusuf shivered and leaned closer to the flames. The nights on the plains could be miserable with a sharp wind that picked at their clothes and ruffled their hair. When Yusuf had asked Nicolò if he could stop the wind, the infuriating man had tilted his head and said it was not his wind and that Yusuf would have to ask the sky. 

'For you, perhaps. Most of what remains are these awful fruits you love so much.' Nicolò held a date between his fingers and grimaced.

'It is not my fault the Franks did not introduce you to proper food.' Yusuf grabbed the date from Nicolò with a smirk. 

‘It is like eating a stone.’ Nicolò said. He dug out another one and popped it whole into his mouth. Yusuf stared for a moment, gobsmacked.

‘Nicolò! There is a pit in it, you aren’t supposed to eat _that_.’

Nicolò spat it out into his palm. ‘Why would food have a stone in it?’

Yusuf laughed with his whole body, throwing himself forward, and there was a quicksilver flash of a smile on Nicolo's lips. Yusuf felt a surge of pride at being the one to place it there. For so many years, Yusuf knew only fast friendships that faded as he journeyed onward, or worse, those with false smiles and falser intentions, it was nice to find one that felt _real._ There was no dissembling in Nicolò; he saw no reason to lie or provide false comfort. Each smile and laugh drawn from Nicolò were drawn by Yusuf and Yusuf alone.

It was truly the first time Yusuf had felt himself since he left his mother’s house as a young man of twenty-two. His contentment had only grown these weeks they had journeyed. He felt at peace in the fading light next to Nicolò. When his _friend_ agreed to take first watch, Yusuf curled under his cloak and was asleep within minutes.

\---

Yusuf awoke to a large, foul-smelling hand clapped over his mouth. The sharp point of a weapon pressed against his throat. A silent warning. He blinked the grit of sleep from his eyes and forced himself to focus over the panicked drumming of his heart. Faces and hair were covered, but he recognised the harsh whispered words. Yusuf was manhandled into a sitting position and his arms wrenched behind his back. The man bound his wrists painfully tight.

There were four of them that Yusuf could see; one held Yusuf, one rifled through their saddlebags, and the others watched the sands around them. Just beyond the dull glow of banked fire embers was another shape. _Nicolò_. Yusuf could see the sharp profile of his nose and pale skin in the moonlight. None of the bandits watched Nicolò and that sent a cold shiver down Yusuf’s spine.

He dared not call out. The dagger across his throat was dull but pressed tight enough to his skin that he felt the sharpness of the blade when he swallowed. _Nicolò_ , Yusuf thought fearfully, _get up. Please, just get up._

He heard only the desert wind as his answer. Yusuf’s captor called to the others, demanding his fair share as they divided out the food left in his and Nicolò’s bags. Nicolò had been right, it was precious little. Yusuf was pushed to the dirt as the bandit stalked over to his fellows. Yusuf’s arms ached. He tried to roll the burn from his shoulders, testing the tightness of his bonds. No one paid him any attention and even less was given to the slain man behind them. They were too busy with their spoils. 

Yusuf noticed the sound of shifting sand first. 

He was uncertain how he heard it over the men’s argument, but he knew it instantly. His head jerked up and Yusuf watched in fascinated horror as Nicolò’s body twitched, breathed, and then the man pushed himself to standing. He seemed to glow, his skin sickly pale in the moonlight. Yusuf swallowed his own nausea as Nicolò pulled the arrow from his neck. Blood oozed down his neck and mixed into the mess already staining Nicolò’s tunic. 

The men stopped fighting. It would be almost comical, how slowly they turned to see the beast before them. Nicolò’s sword was in his hand, his chest heaved. His pale eyes were darker than Yusuf had ever seen, almost black. A prayer dropped from the bandits’ open mouths as they stared. Finally, one of them moved to draw his weapon.

Nicolò got there first. He dashed forward so quickly, Yusuf was not sure his feet touched the sand. Flecks of blood dripped from his arms as he moved and swung. The man nearest him could not even shout. He gasped and choked as if the air had been pulled from his lungs and Nicolo's sword punched through his stomach. Yusuf felt a responding twinge in his own belly. With a vicious twist, Nicolò let the body fall and was upon the next man.

Yusuf had never seen anything like it. Nicolò had been dangerous on the bloodied streets of al-Quds where they first met. Yusuf had sensed the way the air seemed to move, the magic glowing warm and soft beneath his skin. Nicolò had moved with the grace of a dancer even after fighting and healing through the hours of battle. Even though he had been exhausted.

This was Nicolò at his full strength. This was the storm.

He was beautiful. He was terrifying. Nicolò dodged with agility and speed that Yusuf’s mind could barely comprehend. Magic flared across his skin as he lashed forward for the second bandit. He looked less like a man and more like a wrathful god. An ill-timed step from Nicolò’s opponent earned him a wicked slash across his throat. Yusuf flinched. The next fell even quicker; shivering in shock, the man was barely able to hold his sword steady. 

Nicolò turned to the last man, the tallest. He had retreated to Yusuf and dragged him up by his curls. Yusuf gritted his teeth hard. A trembling hand pressed a blade to Yusuf’s throat again. 

Nicolò saw the blade glinting in the moonlight and bared his teeth. 

The man babbled in Arabic, almost too fast for Yusuf to catch. Nicolò paused, tilted his head to the side and then he threw his head back and laughed. The sound was far removed from the small huffs and giggles of earlier in the evening. It was unearthly and the hair stood up on the back of Yusuf’s neck as it echoed across the sands. 

The wind picked up then, harsh and frenzied. It tugged at Yusuf’s clothes, lashed his curls in front of his eyes. The scream of his captor was lost to the overpowering sound of wind. A wall of sand rose around them, as though they were in the middle of a dust storm. Yusuf tightly twisted his mouth shut against the grit and debris. His gaze searched out Nicolò but he had to turn away. The spirit was blinding. 

Yusuf felt the hot draw of the knife. He was not entirely certain the bandit had meant to slit his throat. It could easily have been a panicked response as the wind threw the man to the ground. Yusuf managed to stay kneeling, but just barely. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, his throat ached. He thanked Allah that the cut was not deep enough for him to bleed out within minutes. 

Nicolò prowled over to them. Nothing of the carefree man around the fire remained. Nicolò gripped the last man by his hair and pulled. The fallen man did not move, did not scream out. He lay lifeless. Nicolò raised his sword over the bandit’s taut neck and Yusuf felt again the ghost of a stab against his stomach. The sight of Nicolò’s blade raised in violence against a dying man shuddered through him. 

The smell of blood, _his blood_ , filled his nose, and for a moment he was back in al-Quds, watching helplessly as the spirit shaped like a man cut down a defender. He felt ill. He had plunged his dagger into the magical being’s back, desperate to halt the slaughter, desperate to end it, to make it all -

’Stop!’ The word broke through the howling winds. Yusuf said no spells, had no words of magic to mind. It should have been just a word, a plea to the man he had walked beside these past weeks, but it seared its way up his throat and tumbled from his lips. He was reminded of the distressing way the freedom spell flew away from him. He did not have control of this. Yusuf could taste blood and his voice shattered by whatever ill-gotten power lept from him.

Nicolò paused, his entire body frozen in the moment of the strike. His chest heaved. He seemed to struggle, determined to bring arm down in the killing blow, but he could not. Nicolò’s head whipped up and his eyes found Yusuf’s. Dark as a thunder cloud. The dust storm stopped, piles of sands dropping into dunes around them.

They stared at one another.

‘Y- Yusuf?’ Nicolò asked, his voice rough and uncertain. He released the man’s hair. Slowly the tip of his sword lowered, then dropped, forgotten into the sand. Nicolò sagged, as if his body was too heavy to hold up. Blood was splattered across his face, his pale eyes wide. He took one heaving breath before bowling into Yusuf.

Nicolò’s hands moved, hot and panicked over Yusuf’s body. His fingers worked at the ropes on Yusuf’s wrists and took skin with them as he dragged the ropes off. Yusuf flinched when Nicolò touched the cut across his neck. Nicolò growled.

‘They hurt you.’

Yusuf opened his mouth to speak, but pain bloomed hot and sharp in his throat. He groaned. Nicolò carefully tilted Yusuf’s neck, twisting it towards the light. His fingers were rough and sword-callused but his touch was gentle as he probed the wound on Yusuf’s neck.

‘It is not overly deep,’ Nicolò said. He tore the cleanest strip from his tunic and carefully wiped at the wound. Yusuf whimpered. Nicolò pulled back and stared Yusuf in the face. His jaw tensed. ‘I am sorry I failed you.’

Yusuf tried to speak again. Nicolò shushed him, his hands still tenderly cleaning off the blood.

‘Nico-’ Yusuf’s voice scratched in his throat. He tried to swallow and winced. Nicolò scrambled for the water skin and held it up to Yusuf’s lips. Yusuf drank greedily. ‘The wind?’

‘I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to... I would have never hurt you.’

‘You didn’t… mean to…?’ Yusuf dragged his hands down his face. ‘That was you. The dust storm was you.’ 

‘Yes.’

Yusuf pinched his brows together. There was a niggling thought, just on the edge of Yusuf’s mind. Nicolò had called the winds. Not with a spell or any magic Yusuf understood.

 _There is a storm here_. Nicolò had tried to tell him and Yusuf had not listened. 

Nicolò had called the wind. Nicolò had slaughtered those men. Yusuf felt something hot and hard in his chest, right where Nicolò had stabbed him. 

'The sand storms at Nicea. Those were you.' Yusuf’s voice quivered. 

Nicolò nodded. He would not meet Yusuf’s gaze.

Yusuf’s head spun maddeningly, his thoughts flying faster than he could catch them. He had heard stories of Nicea. It was a story to frighten them; the dread fate to befall the Holy City should they fail. The whispers that spread like sickness through the ranks. The invaders had travelled in a cloud of dust and wind. The whole sky had turned dark and the defenders of Nicea had been slain mercilessly, down to the last man, woman, and child, choked on the air itself. 

Nicolò had called the wind.

Yusuf turned and emptied his stomach over Nicolò’s knee. The acid scalded his already aching throat.

Nicolò moved his hands over Yusuf’s face and back, patting and soothing him but still would not meet his eyes. Yusuf remembered rubbing the blood from Nicolò’s hands with sand that first day. He knew he was scrubbing his own blood away then. And yet, there was more blood staining Nicolò’s hands than he could fathom.

'I didn't ….’ Nicolò took a steadying breath and tried again, ‘The clerics, they said I had to. That it was the only way. All _those_ people ... I- I asked Sebastien to teach me to fight with a sword. It wasn’t fair.'

'Fair? An entire city was lost.'

‘I was bound to them, Yusuf. And the cost ... I nearly burned through this body.’ Nicolò’s hand gestured to his side and the familiar glint of magic at the edge of Yusuf’s vision.

‘Why did you fight for them Nicolò?’ Yusuf knew his voice had gone hard but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He looked at the bloodied bodies surrounding them and felt his stomach roil again. Nicolò looked at him, finally.

'The men and women of Genova, they used to pray to me for safe passage. They asked for rain for their crops. I watched them grow for so long. They were mine, Yusuf, and they prayed for safety on this journey. They-'

‘But you knew after Nicea, that what they were doing was not right,’ Yusuf said flatly.

‘But they were still _mine_. And there was Sebastien too. So I learned to fight, as a man. I thought that would be fair. And the men in charge, they lied Yusuf. The things they said-' Nicolo shook his head sharply. 'I won’t repeat it. But you must know I am sorry, Yusuf.’

‘That doesn’t … Nicolò. Being sorry, and I know you are, that does not - ’ Yusuf cut himself off with a grunt. He flexed his hands, the desire to cast a spell itched at him. But no magic could undo this. ‘That doesn’t change anything. People still died. People I knew and cared about and…’ Malik’s broken body skittered across his thoughts and his voice cracked, _‘people I loved_. You saying sorry doesn’t fix any of it.’

‘Yusuf, I-’

‘We need to collect what we can and move away from the bodies, there will be scavengers by morning,’ Yusuf interrupted. Nicolò pressed his lips tightly together. His eyes were near silver in the moonlight and they contrasted sharply with the dark smear of blood across his nose. Yusuf searched that face for the man from the fire this evening; grimacing at the date stone between his teeth, laughing at a poorly told joke, smiling at Yusuf.

Nicolò swallowed what he had been about to say and nodded. Yusuf waited until Nicolò’s back was turned to bury his head in his hands and pressed his palms against his eyes until the desire to cry left him.


	7. into the great unknown

Nicolò woke before the sun and watched Yusuf prepare for his prayers with tired eyes. Yusuf had dropped after the adrenaline-filled events of the night before, his breath calm and even within minutes. Nicolò had slept badly, tossing and turning and staring at the darkened outline of his companion. The mage had barely looked at Nicolò since they had scrambled away from the bandit’s bodies the night before - the bodies of men Nicolò had killed.

Yusuf used one of the bandit’s water skins to clean himself fully before prayers. His hands shook as he wiped the blood away from his neck. Nicolò twitched, his fingers itching at the memory of feeling Yusuf’s torn and bloody throat the night before. Even from where he sat, Nicolò could see the whole, unblemished skin on Yusuf’s throat.

Yusuf had healed. 

He closed his eyes and breathed; the desert air was hot and a hint of blood lay heavy in it. Unconsciously, Nicolò touched the healed skin at the join of his shoulder and neck, where the arrow had struck him last night.

Nicolò had healed. The power of the runes healed his vessel again and again.

Yusuf had healed. _Twice_. 

Nicolò’s hands drifted down from his neck to press against his hip. Extra runes on his skin that appeared since Jerusalem. Since Yusuf. He wished he knew what it meant, but he was not a mage. 

His eyes flicked to Yusuf. Nicolò knew the cadence of his prayers by now and knew Yusuf had completed them. Yet the other man stayed kneeling on the borrowed cloak, his eyes screwed shut. Nicolò pulled the soft, urgent whispers to himself but could not understand the language. If Yusuf needed extra guidance today, Nicolò would not begrudge him it. He kept his hands busy instead.

He sorted through bandit’s satchels and their own, carefully folding and re-arranging their bedrolls and supplies. When Yusuf finally returned to him, Nicolò offered him the smaller, less heavy bag. If Yusuf noticed, he said nothing. They ate breakfast in silence, Nicolò watching Yusuf through his lashes and Yusuf pointedly ignoring his gaze. 

‘There should be somewhere to get more food nearby, probably within a day’s walk, assuming we did not get too far off track,’ Yusuf said as he finished his meager meal.

Nicolò nodded and tried not to stare at Yusuf's bobbing throat as he talked. The men had bound Yusuf, they had _touched_ him. The thought of those men hurting Yusuf had whipped the storm into a frenzy. Nicolò had felt barely in control the night before. He had _not_ been in control. 

‘Yusuf-’ Nicolò began. ‘Yusuf. I must -’

‘No. You mustn’t. I just … I am not ready, Nicolò.’ Yusuf sounded more resigned than Nicolò had ever heard him. 

Sebastien’s voice echoed from Nicolò’s memories: _You make the others nervous Nicolò. The storm, it scares them._ If Nicolò had scared Yusuf, he may have ruined his only chance at being free.

‘I merely wish-’

‘Wish what Nicolò? That it had never happened? That I did not know? Or perhaps you wish to tell me what you have done to me? The word I spoke last night, that was no spell.’ 

‘I don’t know what you mean. Yusuf, I haven’t done anything. I’m sor-’

‘Don’t. Just don’t say it Nicolò. You have said it enough.’ Yusuf leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He brought his knees up and hugged them to his chest. He looked as though he was folding upon himself. ‘I was dead, wasn’t I? Back in al-Quds. I thought, perhaps, I was badly hurt and you healed me. But I was dead.’

Nicolò remembered, with sudden and nauseating clarity, the feeling of his sword tearing through Yusuf’s abdomen in the streets of Jerusalem. The exact moment the pressure of the blade became too much; the sensation of pressing, pressing, _pressing_ and then suddenly sliding through. The hot spill of blood on his hands and arms and chest, the solid weight of Yusuf. Winds swirled and pushed against Nicolò’s ribcage and his heart _ached_. 

‘Yes.’

‘And last night, the man slit my throat? Yet I woke this morning and the wound was gone. A freedom spell I have woven more times than I can count was suddenly too powerful for me to control. I stopped a storm spirit with a _word_ ,’ Yusuf spoke in barely a murmur, but the wind brought the words to Nicolò as always. The storm stilled. Yusuf opened his eyes and pinned Nicolò with them. More than pinned, he flayed him. Yusuf saw _him_ , whatever type of creature he was becoming and it was terrifying. 

‘I don't know what you want me to say.’ Nicolò licked his lips. Yusuf’s eyes tracked the movement. 

'Something happened, didn’t it? To us? All of this has happened since I … since we fought.'

‘I think,’ Nicolò had so many thoughts swirling around his brain; _his own terrified plea, Yusuf’s miraculous healing, the extra runes, Yusuf calming the storm._ ‘I think something did, yes. I wish I could offer more but-’ Nicolò held up his empty palms.

‘It has been so long since a spell got away from me. It was … _I_ was completely out of control. I do not even know what I did last night. How can I go home if I cannot control this? If I don’t know what this is? If I could harm my sisters or their families - ’ Yusuf crumpled, dropping his head to his hand and Nicolò’s heart squeezed.

‘Perhaps your friend in al-Qahira? If you think he can help me, perhaps he could help you?’ 

‘I can only pray.’

‘Yusuf, you must know, that I will do whatever I can to aid you. You have my word. I think that there is something between us and I - ’ 

‘Thank you, for your word.’ The wry twist of Yusuf's mouth and the tentative laugh behind his eyes raised Nicolò’s hope. But Yusuf continued, 'but I need more time Nicolò.' 

Nicolò had a terrible thought that Yusuf would abandon him now. Nicolò would be alone and still trapped. Trapped forever. His breathing picked up, faster and faster. The sharp scrape of desert air on his lungs was not soothing. The storm beat against his chest. _Trapped trapped trapped_.

‘You must know, that if you wish … if you wish to journey onwards by yourself - ' the words tumbled, spinning around his head and slipping before he could catch them.

Yusuf’s hand came to rest on Nicolò’s thigh. A reminder of what shape he carried. Nicolò felt a blush creep across his cheeks and ears. 

‘We should head off before the day gets away from us, Nicolò. Hopefully my friend will have a way to help us both.’

‘You still mean for me to go with you?’ Nicolò asked. He needed to hear it. He needed to hear Yusuf say it. And Yusuf understood him, in that uncanny way of his. Yusuf visibly softened, his eyes filled for a moment, with the kindness and the openness Nicolò had come to know. 

‘I knew what you were, Nicolò. I _thought_ I knew anyway. I am still not … over last night’s revelations. I will need time, as I have said. But I have promised you I would do my best to free you, and I intend to keep my promise.’ And oh _,_ how the storm rose ever so softly. The knocking against Nicolò’s ribs felt as the brush of wingtips. ‘Now, please, let us get on our way. I _also_ pray that the bandit’s weapons may fetch us a reasonable price and we can buy you some new clothes. You are pungent.’

Nicolò nodded and offered a weak smile. It was meant to tease. It was an offering of peace from Yusuf and Nicolò knew it. They rose together and set off. If their hands and shoulders knocked against one another, a silent apology and acceptance, there was no one but the desert and the wind to know.

\---

The blossoming friendship between them had to be built anew. Tiny step by tiny step forward; a shared joke, Yusuf splashing Nicolò in a stream, wrapping close to each other in the rapidly cooling nights. Nicolò felt acutely aware of Yusuf at all times. He mimicked Yusuf’s breath and gait without conscious thought. If Yusuf whispered or muttered, the winds brought it to Nicolò’s ears. Again and again, they were drawn inexplicably together. Yusuf’s arms brushed Nicolò’s back. Their knees knocked as they sat next to the fire.

Sometimes though, Nicolò caught Yusuf’s gaze lingering on his hands. Yusuf’s sharp and expressive eyes would become hazy and muted. Nicolò fought the desire to clench his fists or hide them away. Other times, Yusuf would lapse into silence for hours, the only sound between them their heavy footfalls and the shifting sands. Nicolò did not like it, the growing silence between them.

But the episodes became less and less as they journeyed onwards, so Nicolò left Yusuf to his thoughts and spent these times learning the sounds of the desert. He missed the sea, the familiar sounds of his life before, but there was a certain joy to the desert. The isolation of it, merely Yusuf and himself, as the days shifted to night and back to day again. As long as he had been the storm turned man, he had been surrounded by people. There was always noise, always smells, always heat and _bodies_. Even in his short time with Yusuf, the silences had been filled with first tension and then talking and learning. 

In the quiet days, Nicolò attempted to parse out his feelings for Yusuf. There was something there, something he was not sure he could name. He considered asking Yusuf, but dismissed the thought out of hand. He did not want to have to _explain_ his feelings to find the words for them. That seemed too intimate. But since the revelations after the night he had killed those bandits, it seemed obvious that their connection to one another was beyond just friendship and human bonds. 

One night Yusuf showed Nicolò how to skin a rodent with strange ears that they had caught by sheer luck and good timing. Nicolò stiffened at the smell and feel of flesh under his hands. However, Yusuf did not flinch as he slid his fingers through Nicolò’s, still slick with blood. When they finished Yusuf smiled so brightly, Nicolò had to turn away.

Nicolò could not keep it from his mind, as busied himself with the fire. Yusuf showed him how to prepare and spit the animal, careful to keep the juices from dripping directly into the flames. Nicolò reveled in the touch of Yusuf’s hands and the way Yusuf leaned in to whisper over the crackle of the fire. 

‘Nicolò,’ Yusuf said, as they sat together and ate their dinner. ‘Before, when we spoke, you said that the men lied. You meant the clerics, did you not?' Nicolò nodded, licking juice from his wrist rather than responding. 'What did they say?'

Nicolò grimaced. 'I am not certain I know the words in Arabic or Sabir, nor would I wish to. Some words lay thick on the tongue.' 

Yusuf nodded slowly, seeming to mull it over. He bit his lower lip and worried it with his teeth. Nicolò wished to soothe the chapped skin with his thumb. He settled for laying his hand upon Yusuf’s thigh. He wished to calm the storm in Yusuf the way Yusuf calmed the storm in him.

‘But what they said stirred you to call the wind? To … do what you did at Nicea.’ Nicolò nodded. ‘I worry - no. I do not know what is to stop you from doing it again?’

'Sebastien had this saying. I do not know what it would be,' Nicolò quickly repeated it in Sebastien’s language. He had been teaching Yusuf some of the Frankish tongue but Yusuf shook his head. Nicolò waved his hand. 'Never mind. It means the wind would change and bend from one side to the other. It was not steady. But that is not right.' Nicolò pinched his brows together in that way he did when the words were being difficult. 

‘Not right?’

'The wind, the storm, it had purpose. But sometimes, one could not see it. And wind does not exist on its own. There is Mother Sky and the warmth of the sea and even the land itself when one crashes against it.' 

'When _you_ would crash against it,' Yusuf corrected.

'Yes. It is hard to explain, when one is on the ground. What you see is so small. It is here to there.’ Nicolò pointed out beyond their fire, where the dying sun painted the sky pink and purple.

‘The horizon?’ Yusuf offered.

Nicolò smiled. ‘The horizon. That is so little, you cannot know what lays beyond it. A rainstorm might seem a blessing, but it might also flood crops further down the river. A storm-free day here might mean a storm elsewhere. When ... at Nicea ….' Yusuf grew tense under Nicolò’s hand. 'When I set off the winds at Nicea, I was so angry. I allowed it to override all sense. But when I saw what I had done. I would not do that for them again.'

'They asked again?' Yusuf asked, his voice barely a whisper.

'They always asked. But there was no purpose in doing so.' Nicolò looked up, tears shining in his eyes. 'There is no glory in what they did in the Holy Land, Yusuf. No glory for anyone. They had me trapped but they did not own me.'

‘How did they? How did they trap you? The runes are for containment, but they would have had to get you inside first …’ Yusuf trailed off, his eyes searching Nicolò’s face. Nicolò felt his ears burn. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. Yusuf reached out and laced Nicolò’s fingers in his own. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to bring up bad memories. We do not have to talk about it.’

Nicolò looked at their intertwined hands for a beat too long. Yusuf went to pull away but Nicolò tightened the grip. ‘He was … this body … there was something wrong. He was out on his own and he did not … I was worried and curious,’ Nicolò sighed. ‘I am not explaining myself well. I got too close and then I got trapped. It is hard to describe being the storm with the words I have.’

‘It is alright. Thank you for telling me,’ Yusuf said. Nicolò tilted his head to the side.

‘You are looking at me strangely again.’

‘I am sorry, I do not mean to. I just,’ Yusuf laughed, ‘it is strange, to remember you are both Nicolò and the storm.’

Nicolò smiled in that way that caused Yusuf to laugh again and the noise was a balm to Nicolò’s very soul. Yusuf’s hand was warm in his and they ate in silence so different from mere days ago.

Before they laid down to sleep, Yusuf asked Nicolò if he could call the wind to blow out the fire and did not flinch when Nicolò did. Nicolò watched the gentle rise and fall of Yusuf’s back before sleep claimed him.

_Both Nicolò and the storm_ , Yusuf had said. _Both_.

\---

Nicolò turned the corner of the building quickly, darting out of the way of an oncoming man. He muttered something under his breath, close enough to the Arabic that Yusuf spoke for Nicolò to piece together the meaning, but different enough that Nicolò had no reply. Nicolò pressed his hand to his sternum, where the man’s elbow had knocked him. _Pain_ , he repeated, _chest, lungs. Breathe._

He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath. There were the scents of al-Qahira he had grown familiar with: the dull smell of sweat and waste that accompanied too many mortals crammed into one place. There was the cloying scent of food and spices that meant he was still near the market. A sweet smell that felt like a blow to his belly and reminded him of Sebastien.

But he could not smell the unique blend of cardamom and sun-warmed skin that he knew better than his own at this point. Nor the new heady overlay of the oil Yusuf had worked through his beard and curls when they had first arrived in the city. He took another, deeper breath. Still nothing. 

Nicolò was lost. He was certain of it.

It had taken merely a moment. They had been in the city two days and had travelled to Yusuf’s friend’s home to find him away. A small, dark haired woman named Negma had teared up to find Yusuf at the doorstep and had ushered them in to stay. Nicolò had felt strangely separate, watching them laugh and chide one another. That morning, when Yusuf had offered to go to the market for her, Nicolò could not bear to be left behind.

The markets were much like any markets he supposed, yet Nicolò did not know them from this low, two feet solidly upon the ground. He kept to Yusuf’s shadow. He ensured the other man was never more than a few steps in front of him. Nicolò had barely paused, his eye caught by a silver ring that reminded him of one Yusuf had sold on the journey. One moment, Yusuf had been _just there_ and then the next he _wasn’t_. 

Nicolò had felt the panicked drums of the storm. His heart picked up and he searched the winds. He followed the smells, the sounds of Yusuf’s footsteps. Nicolò could find Yusuf in the darkest night by the cadence of his breathing alone. But here there was so _much_. Here his ears were tiny and his tongue tripped and stumbled. No one knew of _his_ Yusuf. No one could understand when Nicolò said that he smelled of the citrus fruit they had shared that morning, that his eyes crinkled when he smiled, that his heart beat to this rhythm. 

People laughed and talked and sang. The languages followed patterns he knew and then changed and grew. As the wind, he could absorb all their words, tangle them up and let them settle in his mind. 

He wasn't the wind though. He was a man. He tried to remind himself how big he was. He stood tall, nearly as tall as Yusuf. His legs had carried him for weeks, for years. His arms hefted a blade even Yusuf had found heavy. 

Someone laughed as they moved past him. Another sharp knock of a limb against his elbow. It radiated down his arm unpleasantly. He gritted his teeth. He was a man. He was _Nicolò_.

Yet, for the first time he could remember, instead of feeling impossibly large, he felt too small.

Nicolò had to find Yusuf. He took a moment, pressing his back up against the cool sandstone and rubbed his hands over his eyes. His nerves felt worn raw. He threaded his way through the tiny alleyway and it dumped him out into the markets proper again. The man nearest to him shouted and Nicolò jumped back. 

His hands fluttered constantly, rubbing his tunic between his fingers. He felt filled with the impossible energy of a lightning strike, brimming with excess _need_. His veil itched and he wished to tear it from his face. The increasing number of people surrounding him made him feel exposed and confined all at once.

Yusuf would find him. Yusuf had to be looking for him as well and he knew these streets. Nicolò should stay here. He slid down the wall, curling upon himself. He should wait for Yusuf to find him.

 _Unless_ _Yusuf left you_. 

Nicolò dug his nails into his palm, hard enough to split the skin. Wind tugged at his head covering. He heard a vendor exclaim, saw them press their wares back down the table. He watched with vague disinterest. Down the line of carts and stalls, more people shouted as a wind rattled along them. A child shrieked in delight, chasing their hat. A woman shushed them.

There had been children at Nicea. There had been women too. The wind covered their mouths and suffocated them. Nicolò felt his own veil grow tight against his mouth. If he had been in Nicea, would he have died? Could he die? The storm with no name would have spared him no thought. But how could you steal the wind from his lungs when he could just create more? 

Nicolò thrummed with energy. What had Yusuf said? He felt far too _bright_. 

_I am a man_ , he thought, _I am not a storm any longer._

Something warm and solid came to rest on his shoulder. Nicolò jerked back as if he had been burned. He was too hot, _too much_. He tried to take a deep breath, as Sebastien had taught him. The linen pulled against his lips and into his mouth, _breathing in in in._ He tore it from his face and gasped.

The warmth moved from his shoulders, down the skin of his neck and cupped his face. Hands, familiar and known, smelling of cardamom and citrus peel andsafety.

‘Nicolò, I need you to look at me. I need you to feel my breath, like when I did the freedom spell. Do you remember?’ Nicolò blinked twice, trying to focus on Yusuf’s words and the feel of his hands on his face. It was too much and he pressed his eyes shut.

‘I-I remember.’

‘Good. Slowly now.’ Yusuf took a deep breath, blowing out near Nicolò’s face. It was cool and smelled of mint. Nicolò mimicked it; slowly in and out. When Nicolò was breathing regularly on his own again, Yusuf brushed his thumbs across Nicolò’s cheeks. Nicolò opened his eyes. 

‘Hello.’ Yusuf said with a smile.

‘Thank you.’

‘Are you alright?’ 

Nicolò nodded, afraid to open his mouth and release the scream he felt building in his lungs. Yusuf’s eyes searched his face, no doubt taking in his bitten red lips and flushed cheeks. Yusuf released Nicolò’s face to gently check him over. He unclenched Nicolò’s fists and clucked at the blood on his palms, even if the wounds had already healed. Yusuf tried to stand and Nicolò grabbed at him.

‘Don’t please. I just - ’ _I just cannot think without you. I cannot find the line between storm and man when you are not holding my shape._

‘It is alright.’ Yusuf stayed kneeling and shushed him. ‘I will not abandon you.’

‘How did you find me?’

‘The wind helped. But now I wish to get you up and out of the market before you lose control again. What happened?’

‘You were there and then you were not and - ’ Nicolò shuddered and Yusuf gripped his hands tighter. ‘There are … many people. It is very different from above.’

‘I am sorry Nicolò. I thought you were closer behind me. We should get back.’

‘Do you have what you needed? For dinner?’

‘It’s alright, we will have enough at home. Negma can make a meal fit for twenty with one tangerine and last night’s remains. You will see.’

‘I am sorry Yusuf.’ Nicolò shrank in upon himself. He stared at Yusuf’s hands on his; tanned against pale. He thought of Negma, bustling around the house that morning, wrapping her arms around Yusuf in easy familiarity. They looked the same, Nicolò realised; tanned skin, dark hair, beautiful soulful eyes. Nicolò was too pale. ‘I have ruined things again.’

‘Do not worry Nicolò. Let us get you home.’ 

‘Can we stay a moment longer?’ Nicolò asked. He still felt unsteady. 

‘Of course.’ Yusuf leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Nicolò. Then Yusuf helped Nicolò to stand and linked their hands together and did not let Nicolò go until they were safely home.


	8. bound by fate

Yusuf had kind memories of Lykon’s study. When he had first arrived at twelve, he had been in awe, never having seen so many scrolls and manuscripts in one place. He spent many nights sprawled on the floor, learning history and magic under Lykon’s careful tutelage. Very little had changed in the fifteen years since he had last been here; the two low tables were piled high with books and manuscripts. A comfortable armchair and soft pillows were scattered about the room. Half-empty cups of wine and tea completed the air of an absentminded, albeit brilliant, teacher's study.

It was where Lykon, his cloak and turban still covered in road dust, found Yusuf some weeks after they arrived in al-Qahira. Lykon’s dark eyes lit up, a blinding smile flashed against his face and before Yusuf could even speak, he was engulfed in a warm, if slightly sweaty, hug. Yusuf leaned into it, the tension leaking from his body. He pressed his eyes shut and for one wonderful moment allowed himself to drop the weight he had been carrying since al-Quds. Lykon was back. Lykon would know what to do about Nicolò and Yusuf’s magic. Lykon would help. 

‘Yusuf,’ Lykon pulled back to look Yusuf in the face. Tears glittered in his eyes and Yusuf gulped down his own building emotions. ‘When we heard about al-Quds and we did not receive any more of your letters, we had feared the worst.’

‘I know, Negma told me. I am sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry. If I had a way to get word to you, I would have.’

‘No, no. You’re here, now. And whole. That is what matters.’

‘Yes,’ Yusuf smiled ruefully, ‘I am whole. And with quite a story to tell.’

Lykon’s eyes softened. ‘There have been many stories about what happened when al-Quds fell. I had hoped that you had moved on before then, but I knew in my heart you would not leave. Not when others had need of you.’

‘I did stay. I helped with their mages and lent my gift to the shield. It was not enough, in the end. I - ’ Yusuf’s voice caught in his throat.

‘Come, sit. We do not have to talk about that now. But I would like to know how you arrived at my door nearly a month later and … with a guest, I’m told?’ Lykon helped Yusuf sink to one of the pillows on the floor and sat crossed-legged next to him. His voice was soothing, his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder a familiar weight.

‘Ah, yes, that is Nicolò. We met in al-Quds. He - ’ _killed me._ Yusuf snapped his mouth shut before the words could slip out. He had not thought this through. How could he tell Lykon the truth of their meeting and risk Lykon thinking ill of Nicolò before they had even met? How could he ask Lykon to keep an even, open mind, when Yusuf himself still questioned his own feelings over what Nicolò had done? 

Since arriving in al-Qahira, Nicolò had slowly opened more of himself to Yusuf. He was in equal parts soft-spoken and uncertain, yet curious and eager. The sparks of kindness and gentleness shown on their trek through the desert blossomed in Nicolò’s interactions with Negma and a rowdy bunch of children that discovered the pale stranger would easily hand out treats if asked. 

Yusuf still felt queasy at the thought of Nicolò the storm, the storm as he was in Nicea, in al-Quds, in the desert, but that was not _all_ that Nicolò was. And the strength of his feelings for the two halves of Nicolò often overwhelmed Yusuf in a way that he did not wish to properly examine.

‘The Frank clerics had trapped him, you see, because he is a storm spirit,’ Yusuf chose to say instead, bundling his own conflicted thoughts away for later.

Lykon’s easy smile dropped, infinitesimally. He furrowed his brow before haltingly asking, ‘A spirit? This is not like the time when you were young, with the djinn?’

Yusuf felt his cheeks burn and the unexpected sense of shame sat heavy and sour in his gut. He had not forgotten his first brush with spirits and Lykon’s disapproval. He knew now that Lykon was merely concerned for Yusuf’s safety, that the gift of Sight was rare and his was particularly strong. Yusuf had needed to learn how to be cautious with the non-mortals he could see that others could not. 

But the only pain he had suffered as a youth was emotional; learning someone, some _thing,_ he considered a friend had been using him. How would Lykon react to the knowledge that Nicolò had killed him?

‘This is nothing like that,’ Yusuf murmured, more truthful than Lykon could know, ‘I merely recognised what he was and tried to free him but I was, um, injured in battle. He saved me from the city in the hopes that I could free him. I tried to use a freedom spell. It _should_ have worked, but I could not free him and I hoped that you would be able to help? I promised him, in fact, that we would help him.’

‘That was a rather bold promise,’ Lykon said with a raised eyebrow. There was no venom in it and the older man was already looking at his shelves. He was undoubtedly already considering multiple different spells to try.

‘Well, you are the most intelligent, most learned, most skilled mage - ’

‘Yes, yes, alright. You have made your point.’ Lykon pushed himself up from the floor with a groan. ‘I will need to clean and get changed and then I will have a look at your spirit.’

‘His name is Nicolò,’ Yusuf said, sharper than he intended. Lykon paused again and his gaze was critical, assessing. Yusuf pushed down the urge to shift uncomfortably like a child speaking out of turn.

‘Give me two hours and I will be ready to speak with Nicolò. God willing, we can find a spell to help him. Perhaps it will just be a matter of a stronger freedom spell with the two of us.’ 

‘Well, I, erm, there may be a slight complication to that.’ Yusuf rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Lykon raised one eyebrow. ‘I cannot seem to control my magic at the moment.’ 

‘I often think that I am completely prepared for anything your education could require of me and I continue to be consistently wrong. Let us take this one step at a time; changed, Nicolò, and then your magic, hmm?’ Lykon offered Yusuf his hand and helped him to stand. 

\---

Two hours later, Nicolò stood bare-chested in the middle of Lykon's study. Lykon was bent nearly in double, so his eyes were of height to the dark runes stained across Nicolò’s side. Yusuf should feel calmed, knowing that they were at least getting help for this, and yet he only felt more on edge. He tried not to let his anxiety show. He forced his feet to stay planted, his arms loose at his sides. 

Nicolò glanced over at Yusuf, his eyes wide and green. _Scared_ , Yusuf’s mind supplied. _Nicolò looked scared_. Yusuf smiled, trying hard to relax his brow and jaw. _We are safe. We are amongst friends_ , he wanted to say. Nicolò relaxed the tiniest amount. Yusuf remembered how Nicolò had clung to him on their walk back from the marketplace. How Nicolò had simply accepted Yusuf’s hand in his and had followed, trusting Yusuf to get him home.

Yusuf wished to take his hand now. 

‘And you looked at these marks?’ The question rattled Yusuf from his thoughts and he turned to Lykon. The older man’s nose nearly brushed Nicolò’s skin and Yusuf bit down the desire to tell him to step back.

‘Yes. It’s an entrapment spell. Most of it anyway.’ Lykon hummed in agreement. ‘But the wording they used is unusual. They are not only containment runes, but also healing.’

‘Ah yes, here - ’ Lykon reached out, to touch the rune.

‘Stop!’ Yusuf did not realise he had moved, his hand now clasped over Lykon’s. The older man looked up at him, blinking. Nicolò watched him too. ‘He … I … He does not like them to be touched.’ Yusuf shrugged, embarrassed, before stepping back. It was a lie, of course. Nicolò had allowed Yusuf to touch them that day in the stream. But the thought of Lykon touching them bothered Yusuf in a way he could not put into words. And Lykon had not even _asked._

‘Well, we both know the ones you are referring to,’ Lykon said slowly, glancing between Nicolò and Yusuf. Yusuf stared resolutely at Lykon’s face but he still felt Nicolò’s gaze upon him. ‘I do not think it that strange. They were clearly protecting the vessel from burning out. It is the only way they could hold a spirit for so long. Did they lay them often?’

Nicolò startled at being addressed directly. He licked hip lips before answering. ‘Yes, they did them every few days.’ 

Yusuf winced. When he had placed his hands on Nicolò in the stream, he could feel the raised lines of the runes. It would have hurt, having the powerful magic carved into his skin time and time again. He remembered the broken quality to Nicolò’s voice when they had spoken of the Nicea. The clerics had forced him. They had burned the magic into Nicolò’s skin as if he did not feel it. They did not see Nicolò the man, only a tool to be used.

‘And you tried to release him and it did not work?’ 

‘No, it released our horse instead,' Yusuf admitted. Lykon fixed Yusuf with his gaze. Yusuf squirmed, as if he were fifteen again.

‘Are there more?’ Lykon waved at the dark line of another rune that could just be seen over the band of Nicolò’s trousers. Yusuf felt the change in the air, his eyes snapping to Nicolò. Nicolò’s breath had picked up minutely and Yusuf felt as though his own chest was tight.

‘I did not recognise them, I am not certain how they fit into the rest of the spell. I could draw them though, from memory,’ Yusuf blurted out. He moved to Lykon’s overladen table and started a rough sketch on a piece of slate. 

‘They are not part of the original spell. They are new,’ Nicolò offered. Yusuf looked up from his drawing, surprised.

‘They are?’

‘Yes, since Jerusalem or, what do you say? Al-Quds. I did not have them when last the clerics relaid the spells. I did not know of them until we were in the river.’

‘You did not tell me that,’ Yusuf whispered, almost too low to hear. Nicolò heard it anyway. Nicolò always heard. Those impossible, ever-shifting eyes turned to Yusuf.

‘I did not know what it might mean nor did I have the words to say it,’ Nicolò spoke equally softly. Still Yusuf heard it as if Nicolò was beside him, whispering in his ear. Yusuf closed his eyes briefly, trying to hide the shiver it caused in him. When he opened them again, he caught something flicker across Lykon’s face before he could catch it.

‘These look familiar. You are certain you have them correctly?’ Lyon asked, coming over to look at Yusuf’s rough sketch. 

‘Yes, I’m sure. I got a good look at them.’ Yusuf felt his cheeks warm at the admission, but Lykon chose not to say anything. ‘I thought they seemed familiar too, but I couldn’t place them.’ 

‘You say that they appeared after al-Quds? So, after you first met and Yusuf was injured?’ Lykon moved to one of the shelves about the room, tenderly moving his fingers along the stacks of parchments and book spines. He was no longer paying attention and therefore missed the questioning look Nicolò sent Yusuf at the word _injured_. Yusuf shook his head in the hopes Nicolò would understand to leave it.

‘I do not know exactly when, but yes, it would have been around the time we met?’ Nicolò offered. Lykon pulled a scroll down from his shelves. He moved a cup out of the way to allow him to unfurl it on the table.

‘That would suggest that the two incidents are linked. Nicolò, when you and Yusuf met, did you speak any spells?’

‘That isn’t how the storm works. I do not say spells as Yusuf does.’ Lykon barely made a noise of acknowledgement. He trailed his finger down the page he was reading. The silence dragged out. Nicolò and Yusuf exchanged a glance.

‘Do you think we could release him?’ Yusuf asked. Lykon waved his hand, barely glancing up from his reading.

‘Oh yes, sorry. I think it would be possible to free the storm spirit, though I would prefer to discover what those extra marks mean first. Unweaving the spell will be easier if we know exactly what we are undoing. You may put your tunic back on Nicolò. Thank you for allowing me to see it.’

‘Of course.’ Nicolò murmured, pulling his clothes back over his head.

‘There is another matter that I wish to discuss with you Yusuf, if you will wait a moment?’

Nicolò looked at Yusuf, his eyes wide and uncertain.

‘Why don’t you go see if Negma needs any help, Nicolò? I’ll join you in a moment.’ 

‘Oh, if you are sure?’ Nicolò asked. Yusuf nodded. As Nicolò left, he brushed his arm along Yusuf’s and it took all of Yusuf’s strength not to tangle their fingers together. When Yusuf looked back at Lykon, his teacher was studying Yusuf’s face intently.

‘You were not entirely honest with me earlier,’ Lykon began haltingly, ‘your relationship with Nicolò - ’ 

‘I told you it is not like that,’ Yusuf interrupted. 

‘I have known who you are for a very long time, Yusuf al-Kaysani. I will never judge what choices you make in that regard. However, I do not need your gift of Sight to see the way you are with one another.’

Yusuf sighed and dragged his hand over his face. ‘I had not meant to deceive you. I just did not want you to worry. I feel drawn to him, yes, but in a way I cannot fully articulate.’

‘You were never one short of words when you were younger.’ 

Yusuf grinned ruefully. ‘No, not till now. Though in truth, I have words for what is between us, but it’s more that they do not seem adequate. Friend? Companion?’ He hesitated, the vision of Lykon’s usually open face, drawn harsh and angry and the sound of Lykon’s yelling, an actual lifetime ago now, flashed into his head. ‘This is not the same as when I was younger, but whatever it is, it is strong and I fear it only grows stronger.’

‘And does Nicolò have any thoughts on the matter?’

‘Nicolò will _say_ that speaking is hard. Yet he reads everything around him, then takes heart of the matter and lays it out before you as fact,’ Yusuf snorted. ‘So, of course, he stays mute on this subject.’

Lykon stroked his chin. Yusuf knew it meant he wished to speak, but was choosing his words carefully. ‘It might be a bit much to expect a being that has only lived as a man for three years to be able to express his feelings if you find your own language lacking. My main concern, however, is that emotions, from both of you, may complicate the spell work.'

‘I can control my emotions!’ Yusuf protested.

‘Just not your magic? No, we will not attempt any spells on Nicolò until I can be certain we know what has happened with your magic. But for now, go help Negma and Nicolò with dinner and have a rest. Tomorrow, we will start testing your magic.’

Yusuf groaned. He remembered the rigorous training he had been subjected to as a youth. He had practiced writing spells till his fingers were stained black and then said them until the words came to his tongue almost without thought. He trained his Sight until he could see the faintest flare of magic and he could draw a portent from his previously jumbled dreams.

But he had learned control, in this very room and the garden outside and along the streets of this city, and it seemed he needed to learn it once more.

\---

‘Again.’ 

Lykon sat, drinking a chilled cup of mint tea as Yusuf began the spell again, concentrating on keeping it small, keeping the words in the size and shape he wanted.Yusuf wiped sweat from his forehead. For weeks now, the words beat against his lips and tried to dash from his throat. Anything more complicated than calling a flame was beyond him. And sometimes even that. The night before, he had nearly set his rooms ablaze when he tried to light a candle and set the banked fire alight instead.

The words fought him. He fought back. A tiring dance of back and forth. One that he was slowly winning until his back spasmed and broke his concentration. 

With a swear, Yusuf half-collapsed on the seat next to Lykon. Luckily the small spell of enhancement floated away like a wisp on the wind, unlike the spell of freeing that escaped him yesterday. He had spent the afternoon collecting the neighbours' pets and apologising profusely. 

Lykon made a small questioning noise, but Yusuf waved him off and rested his forehead to the cool tile of the table. He had awoken for prayers that morning hunched awkwardly over Nicolò’s sleeping body after spending the night in Lykon’s study pouring over manuscripts in an attempt to locate the final runes on Nicolò’s hip. 

It frustrated Yusuf how slowly both aspects of their task were going. Yusuf suspected Lykon had some theories, but true to his word, they were focusing on getting Yusuf’s powers back under control first. And that was taking time - too much time. He felt no closer to going home. 

‘You look tired.’ A soft hand dropped against his neck and Yusuf sighed, relaxing at the touch. ‘Negma has prepared a light lunch if you are free to take it before Dhuhr?' Nicolò said over Yusuf’s head. 

Yusuf lifted his head enough to peer at Lykon. Lykon sipped his tea and looked up at the sky as if considering Nicolò’s words. 

‘A break would be most welcome for me,’ Yusuf mumbled quietly. Lykon made no indication he heard him, but Nicolò’s thumb began to rub along the tense muscle corded along Yusuf’s neck. Yusuf bit his lip to keep from moaning.

Lykon looked at them over the rim of his cup. ‘If you have finished your lessons, Nicolò, I suppose we could stop for lunch.’ Lykon downed his tea and stood.

‘Lessons?’ Yusuf asked, turning to Nicolò as Lykon swept towards the house. The pale man smiled down at him and began to massage his neck in earnest. Yusuf did moan that time.

‘Lykon has given me some scrolls and papers to look at. Negma has been reading to me and teaching me some letters.’ Nicolò moved his hands over Yusuf’s back, pressing his hands into Yusuf’s aching muscles. ‘Luckily for you, one of them concerns anatomy. You are very tense here. You need to take better care of your vessel, Yusuf.’

Yusuf turned and grabbed Nicolò's hand. ‘I have you for that.’ He brushed a kiss against Nicolò's knuckles before he realised what he was doing. 

'Yes, you do. Now come. I am hungry, so you should eat,' Nicolò said, an echo of Yusuf in their first days together. Nicolò tugged Yusuf along, their hands still interlocked and Yusuf followed him, trying to quiet the sudden rushing of his heart.


	9. a safe harbour to call home

The storm with no name had very little concept of time. Children were born, grew, and died. The plants were sown, tended to, and reaped. Time was measured in the rise and fall of buildings and family lines. Then Nicolò had been trapped and there was so much more to think on, to store in one’s memories. Time moved slower when one counted days in waking, sleeping, eating and drinking.

Nicolò’s life was measured in lazy mornings cooking with Negma, dinners in the garden under a gnarled fruit tree, and quiet evenings bent over scroll and parchments, matching his breathing to Yusuf’s.

The others told him the seasons changed and he believed them. Months passed, they said, as though that tied the days down and made them immovable. He tried to divide his life into months or days, but he could not do it. Days still blended together, rituals were made, making the same breakfast over and over again. It was relaxing, knowing the shape of his days.

If pressed, he supposed he would say his life fell into three categories: the storm, the army, and Yusuf.

Nicolò’s early fears that Yusuf might leave him now that Yusuf was amongst friends again were unfounded. If anything, Yusuf stayed closer, watched Nicolò more intently.

Yusuf introduced him to al-Qahira. He showed him the streets he played on as a youth, the mosque he and Negma attended. They returned to the market, with Nicolò’s hand securely held in Yusuf’s. It calmed the storm, held Nicolò together. He could enjoy the bright colours and smells. He bought spices and herbs he knew Negma used in her cooking, proud of his haggling until Yusuf told him that he paid double what Negma did. But Nicolò merely laughed, feeling giddy. Yusuf shook his head, yet a soft smile upon the mage’s lips warmed Nicolò down to his toes. 

It felt easy, growing together. Brushing their hands and arms and legs as they leaned over a scroll, Yusuf reading the words as Nicolò followed along the page. Some days Nicolò woke before the dawn adhan, wrapped in Yusuf’s arms and curled together on the floor where they had collapsed the night before. Other days, the morning found them in his or Yusuf’s bed, where they had talked late into the night. When Nicolò tried to extricate himself, Yusuf would pull Nicolò tighter, rubbing his nose into the top of Nicolò’s spine and whispering against Nicolò’s skin.

Nicolò would form the words on his tongue then, the words in Negma’s books, the words that spoke of gentle touches and pounding hearts. Nicolò held the words in his mouth until they burned, then he let them blow away on the wind. It was too much to say and not yet enough.

When Yusuf woke first, Nicolò opened his eyes to an empty room and cooling sheets. If he spent those days largely in Negma’s company in an effort not to name the painful emotion that tightened as a rope across his chest, then that was his business and his business alone.

\---

‘It is not that hard Nico,’ Negma teased. Negma repeated the words, slower and emphasizing the subtle changes in the tone. Nicolò craned his neck to see where she pointed, the lines swimming in front of his eyes.

Nicolò knew it was a tease. Negma did not see Nicolò as anything but the man before her. She did not see him as a puzzle or a quandary, just as he was. She treated him no differently than she did Yusuf or Lykon. It was relaxing in a way; to not be expected to be more than he was, to be allowed to make mistakes and ask questions. 

‘I know it should not be hard. Children can do this.’ He felt a dull throb at the back of his head. He pressed his palms to his closed eyes as he had seen Yusuf do when he was tired. 

‘Children take time to learn, just as you will do. It has only been a few months. Are you well?’ She looked him up and down.

He was, in truth, in a foul mood. He had fallen asleep alone, Yusuf and Lykon preparing a complicated spell for this morning’s practice. He and Yusuf had not spent every night together, yet Nicolò had missed the warmth of Yusuf at his back and the easy rhythm of his breath. Nicolò had found it hard to calm his own breathing with no pattern to follow. 

Then, in the quiet hours before dawn, when all activity had ground to a halt, Nicolò had woken terrified, the fading images of a dream stuck in his mind. The walls of Nicea had towered over him and he had passed beneath them to find the grotesque, bloated bodies of the dead, just as he had all those years ago. However, in his dream, he had seen the bodies of Sebastien, of the women and children he had seen born and raised back on the Ligurian coast, of Negma and Lykon lying there, their eyes unseeing.

He had seen Yusuf, bloodied and broken, his lungs still and unmoving.

He had not been able to return to sleep after that. He felt unsettled, unwell. It reminded him of the long walk to al-Quds, where the sun and heat bore down upon him. When he had stumbled from his room, well past his normal waking hour, his eyes were already tired and the dull ache had already begun to burn in his head. 

The thought of what he had done, what the storm had done, ate at him.

He did not know how to tell Negma that, however, so he did not.

‘I am tired, I think. And frustrated. There was never any need to know what these symbols meant in the sky! And I have ruined the paper, again. We should have used the slates,’ Nicolò lamented. Charcoal stained his fingertips and down his wrist where he had tried to wipe away a mistake before she would see it. 

‘Lykon has enough parchment, he can spare some.’ She pinched his cheeks to draw a small grin out of him. He did smile, though it felt more of a grimace as his head twinged.

As Negma returned to their book, seemingly satisfied, Nicolò found himself absentmindedly stroking the marks along his ribs through his clothes, wondering if the runes were weakening. They had not been re-drawn since his last day with the clerics.

'Yusuf says it has been nearly a year since we arrived here. That is a long time?'

'To Yusuf, yes. To me, less so. To you, oh ancient and unknowable storm? But a blink.’ Negma elbowed Nicolò. ‘But not so long for someone one learning to read and write. If you are frustrated with the letters now, you could work the bread for supper instead? Master Lykon is always hungry after large spellwork.'

He smiled at her and carefully stowed the parchment and charcoal. She cleared part of the counter for him as he washed his hands, taking a moment to press a cool cloth to his neck, and retrieved his apron. 

He enjoyed making the bread, found the slow repetition of the kneading calming. When he first watched a proving loaf double in size, he declared it magic and Negma had laughed at him. 

‘Writing is so different from speaking. If I say something wrong, you or Yusuf will correct me. If I twist one letter the wrong way, suddenly the whole meaning is thrown off,’ Nicolò explained as tipped the already risen dough out and punched it back down. Negma hummed. 

‘You do not need to learn them,’ she said simply, ‘as you say, you will not need them in the sky.’ 

Nicolò frowned down at the flour-coated counter.

‘May I be honest with you?’ Nicolò asked, his voice quiet. Negma stilled her knife and turned towards him. He glanced at her but the kindness in her eyes stirred something painful in his chest. He focused instead on the feel of the dough beneath his palms.

‘Always, Nicolò. You do not have to ask.’ 

‘I do not think I will ever be the storm again.’ The moment he said it, Nicolò wished he could pull them back in and swallow them. He had thought it, in all the years he had been trapped in flesh, he had worried that he would never fly again and call the rain and watch over the rolling hills of his home. But saying it out loud gave it power, gave it _intent_. The words seemed to grow, hanging between them as a physical thing. 

Negma hands were oddly still as she absorbed his words. 

‘And does that sadden you?’

He took a deep breath and it was as if a dam burst. He let his thoughts tumble from him; all that he had been holding back. ‘I … no. By some miracle, no. I am not even sure that I know how to be the storm again. I have done so much. Things I could not tell you, but they weigh upon me The longer I am here, the more I learn … I know I am both Nicolò and the storm, but Nicolò has no place in the sky. A body cannot fly. And the thought of leaving Yusuf - ’ Nicolò nearly bit his tongue to stop himself.

Negma watched him for a long moment. When he did not continue she placed her hands over his and drew them from the dough. She forced him to turn towards her and dipped her head so he was forced to look at her.

‘We cannot be certain the shape our lives will take. I will admit that yours has been more interesting than most, but that is the way of it. What you feel matters. What you _want_ matters and you are allowed to say that.’

‘Thank you.’ 

She cupped her palms against his face, leaving traces of sticky dough and flour in his stubble. Her fingers smelled of crushed mint and coriander. ‘Have you told Yusuf how you feel?’

‘I don’t know how to explain my feelings to him. I don’t know how to explain my feelings for anything, but especially not for him. And the limits of our language, of _my language_. I feel ….’ Nicolò groaned in frustration. He felt dizzy, his throat dry. ‘I have watched humanity beyond years I can count. I have read so many of these books of yours and learned words in the Frankish tongue, Sabir and Arabic. Yet no words are enough. Everything I feel is so much _more_. Everything I think and feel and know to be true of Yusuf is beyond what I could hope.’

'I meant to ask if you had told him about your fears of being the storm again,’ Negma drawled with a twinkle in her eye. She swiped a thumb over his cheek and he realised he had been crying. ‘But I think you say that to him, little rain cloud. That is enough words. And he might struggle to say it, but he looks at you the same way.'

Nicolò’s pulse jumped. ‘In what way?’

‘As though it is too much,’ she said with a laugh. ‘As though looking at you is, how did you say it? As though it is so much more.’ She winked at him, then dusted her hands off and returned to her chopping. Nicolò felt his cheeks burn.

She could not mean that Yusuf felt the same way as Nicolò, could she? His heart fluttered at the thought that Yusuf looked upon Nicolò the way Nicolò looked upon him. Yet there were times that he caught Yusuf staring, the look on his face impossible to read. Nicolò’s pulse pounded in his ears. Much too loud, actually and his head throbbed. Nicolò felt panic rise in his throat. He had never felt this way. _The runes_ , he thought distractedly.

He placed his hand upon the counter and locked his elbows to prop himself up. He tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs felt too weak and too small. His vision went dark for a moment, shadows passing over his eyes. Negma paused and searched his face.

'Are you alright?'

He did not feel alright.

'I-I- am,' was all he could say before he passed out.


	10. uncertain on the shifting ground

Nicolò was pale, too pale. Sweat gathered on his forehead, his brow furrowed slightly. Yusuf lightly traced the line with his thumb, watching the skin smooth and relax at his touch. He trailed his hand down, across Nicolò’s cheek and neck, and laid it heavily on Nicolò’s chest, calming at the steady rhythm beneath his palm.

‘Can you tell me what happened again, please, Negma?' 

‘Nothing out of the ordinary,' she gasped. Negma was still bent over, slightly out of breath, with her hands on her thighs from helping Yusuf move Nicolò from the kitchen to the sitting room. With Yusuf kneeling next to Nicolò, they were almost eye to eye. 'We were chatting, he was practicing his letters. Then started on the bread. He looked a bit pale, I will admit, yet said he was merely tired. When he suddenly collapsed, I came to find you.'

'There must be something you missed, he wouldn't just collapse,' Yusuf brushed Nicolò’s hair away from his face. 

‘Perhaps he collapsed because his sleep has been disrupted as of late, _Yusuf al-Kaysani_.’

‘I … that - that is none of your concern!’ Yusuf snapped, his cheeks burning at her tone and pointed look. He had hoped Nicolò’s and his sleeping habits had gone unnoticed, especially as they were _only_ sleeping habits. The realisation that they were not a secret within the household soured in his stomach.

Negma’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yusuf, I know you are worried, so I will not say anything about your tone with me - ’

‘Negma,’ Lykon asked quietly, thankfully arriving and cutting the tension between them, ‘could you get us some clean cloths and some fresh water. Thank you.’ Lykon pressed a hand to Nicolò’s forehead, his normally open face pinched tight. Negma nodded, sweeping past Yusuf without looking at him.

Yusuf knew he should feel ashamed for snapping at Negma. Some small part of his mind did, he was certain of it, but in that moment, he could only concentrate on the unbroken heartbeat in Nicolò’s chest and the guilt, heavy and sharp, in his own throat. Nicolò was here, _right here,_ he reminded himself.

He counted the beats under his palm, willing himself to calm down, as Lykon continued his careful checks of Nicolò. _Twenty_. Lykon pressed an ear to Nicolò’s chest. _Fifty_. He picked up one of Nicolò’s arms and let it fall heavily back to the bench. _Sixty five …_

Nicolò did not wake, but he was still _here_ , solid and real, his chest rising and falling in pace with Yusuf’s as it always seemed to be these days. Yusuf ran his free hand over the glowing runes down Nicolò’s side. He could see the soft glimmer of them in the corner of his eyes, the magic healing keeping the vessel healthy and alive. Yet,Yusuf still needed to touch them, to feel them through the light, sweat-drenched tunic. 

Clerics had rewritten them regularly, Nicolò had said. Unnecessary pain for Nicolò and another sign of the invaders’ cruel indifference, Yusuf had thought. Now, however, a chill crawled up his spine. Yusuf had not renewed the runes, he had _refused_ to, balking at the thought of hurting Nicolò. What if both Lykon and himself had misjudged Nicolò’s strength? The storm in the desert, commanding the winds and sands and burning so brightly, was seared into Yusuf’s mind.

They had been in al-Qahira for _month_ s and Nicolò could have been growing weaker without Yusuf even noticing.

‘Do you think it is the runes?’ Yusuf had to know if he was responsible, if this was somehow his fault -

‘I am not certain, but if I find anything of note, I will let you know.’ 

Yusuf bit his lip to keep his thoughts to himself. Negma returned and handed over three damp cloths and a towel. She passed a worried look at Nicolò before hustling out, muttering something about checking the bread. 

‘Did you manage to contain the spell?’ Yusuf asked as Lykon moved down Nicolò's hips and legs, something to fill the silence and ignore the dark thoughts running through his own mind.

‘I did, yes.’

‘I am sorry, I know I should have been there.’

‘Given your current emotional state, I am not sure you would have been of any help,’ Lykon said offhandedly, ‘though you must know that you cannot drop a complicated spell like that. If I had not been there, the consequences could be catastrophic. That cannot happen again.'

‘Of course I know that,' Yusuf bristled at the implication. He was not an absentminded youth, he had performed more complicated spells than the one they attempted today. It was just when Negma came running to the garden, shouting about Nicolò being _hurt_ , Yusuf felt as though the air had been sucked from his lungs. He searched for the words to explain, 'but it was Nicolò! What if he was hurt or worse? He may heal, but that does not mean he cannot be wounded - ’ Yusuf trailed off, silenced by the image of Nicolò lying still and bloodied under the moonlight all those months ago. 

Lykon’s hands paused in their ministrations. He sat back on the arm of the bench and fixed Yusuf with a curious stare. 'Nicolò cannot die,’ Lykon said slowly, ‘even if the runes healing this vessel failed, it would merely set the spirit free. Nicolò would simply be the storm once more. Is that not what we are trying to do?’

Yusuf twirling thoughts stuttered to a halt, Lykon’s words worming into his ear and echoing. _Is that not what we are trying to do_? Yusuf had promised Nicolò to free him, he had sworn it, outside the still burning walls of al-Quds. Yet Nicolò had been the storm then, vicious and righteous, angry at being contained and chaffing at his skin. 

Now, Nicolò's heart beat like that of a man, reassuringly constant under Yusuf’s palm. The thought of losing all that Nicolò was to the whisper of wind in the sky; to watch Nicolò's chest still, his runes grow dark, and his heart falter before falling silent? Untenable. 

‘The thought,’ Yusuf began quietly, trying not to gasp as his lungs squeezed and flattened, the weight of speaking the fear out loud almost too much, ‘that the runes were failing, that he was unravelling and I was not there? That I did not get to say goodbye? I - I could not bear it,’ Yusuf said, his voice growing heavy, weighed down by somethingsolid and viscous and pained. 

It built in him, the terrifying thought of _Nicolò_ leaving. Nicolò, who laughed at Lykon’s and Negma’s bickering, who stuck his tongue out when concentrating on a new letter, and who smiled, sweet and slow, when he woke in Yusuf’s arms. To lose all this and for Nicolò to not even _know_. For Yusuf to never be able to tell him. The words, searingly hot and acidic, clawed its way up from the pit of his stomach, to burn his throat and spill out, ‘I cannot let him go. _I will not._ ’

He felt the power leap from him, as his panicked heart pounded in his chest. He _felt_ the wind, swirling behind his teeth before being joyously set free. The window shutters banged open with a thud. The gust tugged at their clothes and knocked over a stack of Lykon’s papers. Candles flickered and sputtered, one blinking out and casting part of the room into shadow. Tiny flashes of light jumped along Yusuf’s fingers, splitting and crackling like lightning and raising the hairs on his arms. He tried to reign it back in, closing his fists as though he could grab the magic from the air and swallow it back down.

'Not again,' he croaked, his voice raw from the magic, a sharp reminder of his slit throat in the desert. Nicolò moaned, twisting his head from side to side, but did not awaken. Yusuf twined their hands together, calming Nicolò with his touch again.

The wind died as suddenly as it had started.

‘That … that was …’ Lykon narrowed his eyes, taking in the disheveled state of the room, 'What do you mean _again_?'

Yusuf swallowed, grimacing at the soreness of his throat. 'This, ah, happened before, when we were in the desert,' he said, soothing Nicolò’s hair off his forehead and refusing to meet Lykon's eyes, 'though, not exactly this. I stopped Nicolò with a word and it felt the same, as if the magic was being ripped from me, as though my thoughts were made real.’ 

‘Yusuf, that was a storm. That was wind and lightning and - ’ Lykon stuttered.

‘I know.’

‘And you did this without a spell.’

‘I know,’ Yusuf repeated. 

‘That should be impossible - ’

‘Lykon, I _know_. I know all of this. I know that this is impossible.’ Yusuf dragged a hand down his face and laughed, sharp and slightly hysterical. Lykon slid from the bench and sat heavily on the floor next to Yusuf. ‘I feel I am going mad sometimes, trying to make sense of all this; my magic, my feelings, _Nicolò_ , all impossible.'

‘Yusuf, you are _sharing_ one another’s magic. Your sudden spike in power, commanding magic without a spell, this is because you are sharing Nicolò’s power - oh by the gods -’ Lykon swore, scrambling around Yusuf to press his hand to Nicolò’s forehead again.

‘What? What is it?’ Yusuf searched out Nicolò’s pulse, fear tightening across his chest like a vise.

‘If you can draw upon his power in this manner, then today when we attempted the spell ….’ 

‘I drew too much from him,’ Yusuf whispered, realising what Lykon was getting at, ‘he is like this because of me. Using my magic is _hurting_ him.’

‘Yusuf, please, you must tell me honestly, what happened between you in al-Quds? Something must have happened for this,’ Lykon gestured between Yusuf and Nicolò, ‘to have happened. I do not wish to press you, but if I know, perhaps I can teach you some skills to control the flow of magic between you two.'

Yusuf opened his mouth and the memory rose, almost unbidden. The smell of smoke in his lungs, the sound of his own harsh breathing. His arm, tense and aching, as the being caught his swing again, pushing back against him. 

The seemingly endless moment his foot rolled and he felt his equilibrium fail. He tensed, prepared himself for the harsh impact of his shoulder on dirt and stone, anticipated the sickly feeling of the rivers of blood splashing against his skin, but the dreaded impact never came.

Instead, a sharp tear to his stomach. The blood that splashed him was his own, painfully hot over shaking hands. The memory was choppy, incorrectly recorded in his mind, as if the exquisite agony blocked out all other thoughts. Flashes of Nicolò, even though he did not know his name. His matted hair, damp and lank against his face, those eyes, pale and wide. 

He flinched, Lykon’s hand on his shoulder startling him. A soft wind whipped his hair across his face. Nicolò moaned again and Yusuf blindly reached out to soothe him on instinct.

‘Yusuf,’ Lykon said gently, ‘you went away for a moment.’

‘Nicolò killed me,’ Yusuf blurted out as he rubbed his thumb across Nicolò’s knuckles, ‘he stabbed me and I felt myself die. I _died_ in al-Quds, Lykon. I should be buried among the thousands of others in the sand.

Lykon’s hand spasmed as he inhaled sharply with a hiss and something hard flashed across his face.

‘Forgive me, but that is why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to think of him as only my murderer. God, I know it makes no sense, but even if he killed me, he saved me. He dragged my body away before I could be burned. I do not claim to understand what is between us, but whatever it is, it brought me back to life, I think.’

Lykon sighed, older and more weary than Yusuf had ever heard him. ‘You are not wrong, I would have thought badly of him at first. But surely sometime in the last year, you have noticed that Negma and I care for him, perhaps not as deeply as you, and will not abandon him so easily.’

'I know. I am sorry.’ Yusuf twisted to be able to look at Nicolò’s sleeping face. ‘This desire to look after Nico, to protect him, I feel it so strongly, that it does not always feel like my own desires or whims, but rather a demand from outside myself. It scares me sometimes.'

'A bond that allows two mages to share power is a complicated spell, and usually requires any number of focuses and rules agreed between them. For one to be forged between a mage and spirit of pure magic, seemingly without a spell, that is a rare thing indeed. I will need to check the study.'

‘But you think there is something that can be done?’ Yusuf asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice.

‘I will need to check some things and prepare a spell for you tomorrow - ’

Yusuf turned abruptly and grabbed Lykon's hand. 'Anything, whatever you need. What can I do? Shall we go to study now?'‘

'Calm yourself. You and Nicolò need to rest, do you think you could help me get him upstairs? A bed would be more comfortable.'

‘Yes, of course.’ Yusuf smiled, squeezing Lykon’s hands in a silent _thank you_ , before sliding his hands under Nicolò’s hips.

\---

Yusuf smothered another yawn, feeling weary and aching down to his bones. Not as much as he thought he might, given the restless night he had spent uncomfortably tucked behind Nicolò. Though Nicolò’s breathing had evened out and he had dropped to sleep quickly in his own bed, Yusuf could not calm his racing heart nor stop his spiralling thoughts.

‘Yusuf, are you paying attention?’ Yusuf blinked rapidly to find Lykon and Nicolò staring at him. When Yusuf sheepishly nodded, Lykon continued, ‘I was asking you if you remembered the spell.’ 

‘Yes, you had me write it down four times this morning. It should be simple enough, especially if all I am doing is repeating along after you.’

‘I will be creating the framework for you to allow myself to see what you see, but you will be driving the spell. Your gift of Sight is the only reason we can attempt this spell today, as I don’t have a large enough quartz crystal to augment my gift for a Spell of Seeing.’

‘I am sorry to interrupt, but are you saying that Yusuf is standing in for a crystal?’ Nicolò asked, causing Lykon to relaunch into his earlier explanation of the use of quartz in vision spells and how Yusuf would be far more useful as a focus. Nicolò nodded when appropriate, his head tilted to the side in the perfect illusion of rapt attention. When he caught Yusuf’s gaze, the corner of his lips twitched upward. Yusuf barely managed to hide his own smile.

‘Are you ready?’ Nicolò asked Yusuf, when Lykon had finally finished his lecture and turned to mix the tonic with lemon peel and cardamon which would help enhance the spell.

They sat mirroring one another, legs crossed and palms resting on their knees. Nicolò looked better than the night before, though still a shade paler than normal. The dark shadows under his eyes were almost purple-black bruises across his skin. Yusuf wished to brush the skin with his thumb. _Or his lips_ , Yusuf’s mind helpfully provided, replaying a memory of the impulsively stolen kiss that Yusuf had quickly pressed to Nicolò’s forehead as he slipped from the bed for morning prayers. Yusuf felt the phantom sensation of Nicolò’s skin against his own and suddenly needed to shift again.

‘It’s alright,' Nicolò murmured, reaching out and sliding his hand in Yusuf’s. With a small grin, Nicolò brought their intertwined hands to his own chest. 'Breathe with me Yusuf. Inhale, hold, exhale. As you taught me.' 

As Lykon returned and began the spell, Yusuf watched their joined hands moving minutely with the rise and fall of Nicolò’s chest. He drew his gaze up, along Nicolò's neck, to his eyes; blue and green and gold flecked, like the sun-soaked ocean outside of Tunis. _Inhale, hold, exhale_. Nicolò’s breath continued in the familiar pattern and Yusuf followed. _I will always follow,_ he realised suddenly. Whatever Nicolò was, whatever he could become, bound together by unknown magic or not, Yusuf would trust Nicolò with his life.

He had already.

For the first time since al-Quds, since that terrifying morning in the desert, the spell did not fight him. The words were powerful, yes, but not overwhelming. His breath followed the steady rhythm Nicolò set out. He watched Nicolò’s eyes, as he had done all those months ago, blood-soaked and dazed, and they were light and joyous instead of afraid. It felt right, calling his magic with Nicolò and the words fell easily from his tongue, blending and weaving alongside Lykon’s. The spell settled into something solid that settled over him as a warm cloak.

'Close your eyes now, Yusuf,' a voice said, familiar and well-known, but so distant now. He wanted to rebel, to shout no. He could think of nothing he wanted more than to keep looking into Nicolò's eyes. 

A warm hand pressed to the back of his neck, _Lykon,_ and Yusuf relaxed into the touch. He closed his eyes and Lykon dotted the prepared mixture over the apples of his cheeks and forehead; citrus for clarity and cardamom for protection. Yusuf held the last notes of the spell, as Lykon's magic, the scent of woodsmoke and the flash of a smile, filtered in alongside his own. They took a deep breath, three as one, and Yusuf distantly noticed how discordant it was for Lykon’s lungs to fill as his own. 

His brow furrowed and his breathing faltering until he felt Nicolò press their hands tighter to his chest. _Breathe with me_ , Nicolò’s thoughts slid into Yusuf’s mind as easily as if they belonged there. Like Lykon’s magic, it _felt_ like Nicolò; a splash of salt spray and air heavy with the promise of rain. When Lykon had said the spell would amplify his gift, Yusuf had not guessed magic would flicker across all his senses as easily as his Sight. 

‘Yusuf,’ Lykon said, drawing him back to the task at hand. With another shared breath, Yusuf blinked open his eyes. He felt Lykon inhale, drawing the air from Yusuf’s lungs. They sputtered, uncertain, staring through Yusuf’s eyes at the glowing being before them.

Nicolò had told Yusuf of the storm; that the storm was just _there_ , inside of him. He spoke as if it was a tireless roving sensation beneath his skin. In the dark of the night, curled in Yusuf’s arms, Nicolò spoke of the way he felt his magic press and push against his skin, of being too small, of being _overwhelmed_.

Yusuf remembered, with painful clarity, when the storm had overwhelmed him and Nicolò had slaughtered those men. And yet, even then, Yusuf hadn't understood fully. 

Now, able to see and feel and taste the magic at the back of his throat, Yusuf could follow the connection between them, the bond. It reached from Yusuf’s heart across to the three mysterious runes carved into Nicolò’s hip, blazing white to him now. 

Then he - _they -_ were the storm. They whispered and pressed and raged against Nicolo's skin. They expanded and contracted, wrapped around Nicolo's heart and filled his lungs. Those moments Yusuf spent in the spell, he felt impossibly powerful, untouchable, and trapped, trapped, _trapped._

Yusuf pulled back suddenly, vibrating with so much power beneath his skin. Even with his eyes closed, the imprint of the storm burned against his eyelids. He shuddered and the words unravelled on his tongue, the spell cracking and fading away. Lykon’s magic dropped from his, like shedding layers on a warm day. He forgot to breathe, he _couldn’t_ breathe. How did he breathe when his lungs were just his own? Strong hands gripped his shoulder and his chest ached as he tried to gulp air into his lungs,only his lungs.

Hands cupped his cheeks, turned his face and gently pressed a cup to his lips. Yusuf gulped the cool water until it was pulled back, spilling some down his chin. Nicolò soothed him, telling him to drink slowly in the startling inverse of their first day in the desert.

'Thank you,' Yusuf mumbled, stroking over Nicolò's wrist with trembling fingers. 'It was everywhere, Nicolò. Like a tangled knot that filled every inch of your skin. Like a cloud, expanding and tumbling and _so much._ '

Nicolò stiffened beneath his hands, his eyes blurring from blue to green to grey, as emotions swirled within him. 

‘You saw the storm?' Nicolò settled on at last, the muscle in his jaw tightening. 

'Oh Nico, it was beautiful. You were beautiful,' Yusuf breathed. The shy blush along Nicolò's cheeks made Yusuf wish to gather him in his arms and brush his lips against the flushed skin. He wanted to follow the blush down, past the collar of Nicolò's tunic, map it across Nicolò's chest and feel the thrumming of the storm that seemed to echo in his ears even now.

‘Nicolò, could you see if Negma could gather some food? Yusuf will need something after such a spell.’ Once again, Lykon’s voice interrupted Yusuf’s thoughts and pulled him back to the present. 

‘I’ll be right back,’ Nicolò promised, slowly untangling from Yusuf before hurrying from the room. Yusuf watched him go, finding himself listing heavily into Lykon’s arms from exhaustion. A troublesome headache had begun to pound at his temples.

‘Dropped a spell again, Lykon,’ he slurred, ‘’m sorry.’

‘I think you can be forgiven this time. I did not expect - ’ Lykon shook his head and wrapped his arm more securely around Yusuf’s shoulders, ‘I have never seen anything like it. His entire being is magical. I mean, of course, I knew that he was a spirit, but to see it like that, as you see it? Extraordinary.’

‘It does not always look like that to me.’

Lykon chuckled, ‘No, I do not imagine it does. But now that I’ve seen it,’ Yusuf felt Lykon’s small, aborted breath, whether from the last vestiges of the spell or from the closeness of their bodies, he couldn’t be sure, but his own breath hitched in kind. Lykon’s voice was worryingly neutral as he carried on, ‘this is not like sharing magic between two mages. Nicolò, the storm, he is pure magic. When you borrow his magic, you’re taking a part of the storm.’

‘You can teach me to control it though, can’t you?’ Yusuf asked quietly. He reminded himself to breathe, that these were his lungs alone again and he had to _breathe_.

‘I think I could help you create a barrier so you had more control over when you draw upon it. Working with Nicolò helped today. He settled you, perhaps with time... but Yusuf, you must know, I am only guessing here, I am not certain that I can stop you from tapping into Nicolò’s magic entirely. The storm yesterday, the one you spoke of in the desert? These things seemed to happen without your full understanding or control. If you were to get injured or, gods forbid, killed again, his power might heal you as it heals him. There might be some things about this bond that are beyond your control and that worries me.’ Yusuf tightened his grip on Lykon’s arm, seemingly the only motion he could force his exhausted body to make. Lykon hugged him. ‘Nicolò is the storm and if his magic is used up - ’ Footsteps in the hallway interrupted them and Yusuf forced his tired eyes to open, in time to see Nicolò step into the room with a platter of food.

And Yusuf _saw_ him, saw the beautiful contradiction; Nicolò with the storm stirring under his skin, with his dark eyes flashing and bloodied sword raised. Nicolò the man who stuck out his tongue when writing a new word and looked on so softly when Yusuf read out poetry. _Nicolò_ , storm and man, who Yusuf had held tightly to his chest this very morning.

Nicolò, who was made of magic and if the magic was used up, who would no longer be.

Nicolò, who Yusuf had to set free before he killed him.


	11. this thing of darkness one must acknowledge

Nicolò woke early, his heartbeat thumping in his ears and anxiety twisting in his stomach. 

‘Tomorrow,’ Yusuf had whispered only hours before. His voice muffled against Nicolò’s shoulder blade in the liminal twilight of Nicolò’s bed, the one place that seemed unaffected by the last few weeks. His breath was warm and distracting, ‘tomorrow we will be ready to attempt to free you.’

The sky was barely beginning to lighten, the streets quiet. The wind brought Nicolò only muffled footsteps and quiet murmurs of early risers, most of the world still cocooned in sleep. The hush felt sacred, the house calm as the still before the storm. He lay for a moment, listening to the soft sounds of Negma stoking the fire and the neighbour’s cat darting along the eaves.

He turned, staring at the twisted sheets next to him, already cool to touch. The storm stirred, displeased at waking to an empty bed _again_. Nicolò conjured the feeling of waking to a warm body behind his, arms about his waist, and sleepy breaths across his neck. An emotion too vast to name lay heavy in his throat.

When the adhan began to call the nearby worshippers for Fajr, the overlapping chants from the nearby mosques broke the early morning calm and Nicolò pushed himself out of bed with a groan. He grabbed a tunic thrown on the floor and pulled it on. It smelled of Yusuf; of charcoal, spice, and sweat. Nicolò paused a moment, his heart leaping and knocking against his ribs. 

He slid on his breeches and house slippers. After hesitating, he took his over-robe from the back of his chair and pulled it around him. Winter was coming and the crisp bite in the air raised the hairs on his arms.

Nicolò found Yusuf in the garden, as he expected, and paused a moment under the covered porch, watching. The wooden table and chairs pushed to the side to give him more room and Yusuf crouched bare-foot in the dirt, in the middle of two concentric rings lined with black charcoal. The long sleeves of his kaftan were rolled up, his hands and wrists streaked with dust as he carefully dropped white chalk dust into the third circle he had carved in the dirt, exactly between the two black rings. The rising sun draped the curls that had fallen free from his hastily tied leather thong in pinks and purples and golds. Nicolò ached to reach out and twine them around his fingers.

Nicolò knew Yusuf heard him approaching; the hitch in Yusuf’s breath, the slight turn of his head. They had a name now for the feeling between them. Lykon called it a bond, forged in those hectic moments in the Holy City while Nicolò held Yusuf’s dying body in his arms. Yusuf had described it as a line, a thread, between the two of them. Nicolò merely needed to follow and there Yusuf would be.

‘You are up early,’ Yusuf called, not turning to look.

Nicolò’s slippers echoed in the quiet pre-dawn air. ‘I could not get back to sleep.’ He settled near Yusuf, mimicking his stance. Nicolò ensured that he stayed outside the looping lines across the ground, ‘It is often the case when I wake without you these days,’ Nicolò idly mused. Yusuf hunched his shoulders, the tense muscles visible under the thin linen shirt. 

Two weeks ago, Nicolò would have thought nothing of touching Yusuf, of running his hands along the fabric, working at the knots until Yusuf relaxed. Now, he hesitated and his hands hung uselessly at his sides, too frightened to move. If Yusuf were to flinch back from Nicolò’s touch, he did not know what the storm would do. There was too much in the air between them, unspoken words and smiles that did not lift their eyes. His chest felt unsettled and heavy, like a squall gathering that never broke. 

‘I am sorry, there was much to prepare for today,’ Yusuf said, not looking up from where he was now carefully drawing white runes and symbols between the three lines. ‘I wanted to get this finished before morning practice.’ 

Nicolò hummed, studying the effortless way Yusuf’s skilled hands worked, the lines sharp against the dirt. There was no template, yet Yusuf’s writing was sure and precise and Nicolò marvelled at it. 

Soft sounds filtered into the hush between them; neighbours waking from their sleep, doors and windows opening, Negma returning from the mosque and calling out to her friend at the gate. Still Yusuf drew, adding smaller, more intricate designs between the black and white lines. Nicolò watched him, the sweep of his arm and the concentration on his face.

The sun rose, burning off the early morning haze. Sweat collected at the creases of Nicolò’s limbs. He wiped it from his forehead and upper lip, waiting. Yusuf drew, his whole being concentrated on his task. Nicolò breathed out and Yusuf breathed with him. A thrill ran through Nicolò, knowing that this was still between them no matter the distance nor the unwieldy silence that seemed to grow with each new day.

An hour passed before Yusuf sat back, finished with his task. He cleaned his hands upon his tunic and gently blew dust from the design before taking in his work; two large dark circles, with a thin white circle between and small letters and runes between the three. He stepped from the work, careful not to smudge it, and when he turned, he seemed surprised to see Nicolò still there.

‘I did not … you did not have to stay, Nicolò.’

‘I wished to,’ Nicolò said with a shrug, ‘Negma still fusses over me. It is easier to stay out of her way and Lykon is in the study. And I - I have missed you.’ Nicolò reached out then, brushed his hand along Yusuf’s. He felt the breath stutter in Yusuf’s lungs. 

‘These drawings are beautiful.’ _You are beautiful._

‘Thank you,’ Yusuf lifted his arms over his head and stretched, ‘they should help to contain my workings of the spell today. Lykon is impressed with how my control has come along, yet it is best to take precautions.’ 

Nicolò nodded, ignoring the unpleasant tug in his stomach. Nicolò dropped his head and traced the tidy, twisted letters and runes with his eyes. _What you feel matters. What you want matters and you are allowed to say that._

In the blood-soaked streets of Jerusalem, he wanted the mage to live. At the stream, he had wanted to feel Yusuf’s hands upon his runes. He wanted to erase the memory of Yusuf’s terrified face as Nicolò held his knife over a bandit’s neck. 

For years, he had wanted to be set loose, to be simply the storm again. To fly on the winds, to call down the rain, to be free.

He was being offered that freedom again, and he could not take it.

Now, he wanted to hold Yusuf’s hand in the markets, wanted to touch Yusuf as freely and easily as he had before, wanted Yusuf to touch _him_.

He wanted and wanted and _wanted_. 

The words lay thick on his tongue, too many and not enough. What words could be said of how he felt, of how Yusuf made him feel? In all the years and all the languages he heard, theis one of human emotions still eluded him. 

Nicolò focused on the drawings instead, refusing to meet Yusuf's gaze. The letters written between the thick outer border seemed familiar. Nicolò leaned closer, something itching at the back of his mind. He had seen these marks before-

The storm stilled so suddenly, Nicolò felt as though he had forgotten how to breathe. Pain blossomed against his chest and he sat down heavily. He gasped, his body crying for air and yet his mind could not settle enough to provide it.

Nicolò’s heart pounded in his ears. Yusuf moved towards him, a cry on his lips, but there was nothing beyond the storm. Yusuf’s hands upon his neck, his cheeks. Yusuf tilted Nicolò’s face upwards. Yusuf’s touch was familiar, his hands sure on Nicolò’s skin. Nicolò had craved this touch, only minutes, hours, before, hadn’t he? Yusuf, shining like the sun, like a lighthouse upon the darkened shore. Yusuf’s dark eyes, searching his own, frantic and _scared_. 

Yusuf was scared.

Yusuf had been scared in Jerusalem, Nicolò’s sword shoved through his stomach. Yusuf had been scared in the desert, watching Nicolò slaughter those bandits. Yusuf was scared now.

Yusuf was scared of the storm and the storm riled. 

‘Nicolò, Nico! Are you alright?’ The voice cut through the endless tumbling of his thoughts, _it always would_ , and Nicolò tried to centre himself by it, turning his head towards the source. Yusuf’s dark eyes seemed to burn into Nicolò’s own. _He looks at you the same,_ Negma said and Nicolò shivered. To be seen so surely, it was as if he was stripped of his vessel, as if he was being cracked to the violent, churning whirlwind at his centre. 

‘Yusuf, what is this?’ Nicolò managed, his tongue heavy and unsure of the words, almost as when he was newly trapped, newly made human, ‘What have you drawn?’

Yusuf's brow furrowed at Nicolò’s tone, a smear of charcoal and chalk across his skin. Nicolò ached to reach out and brush it away. ‘It is a containment ring. Should allow me to practice the new spells that Lykon is having me work on this morning,’ said Yusuf.

The wind rattled in his lungs, agitated. 

‘To contain what, Yusuf?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Yusuf said, uncertain. He watched Nicolò, his face drawn, his eyes dark and impossible to read. Storm clouds rumbled along his spine, fast and sudden and angry. Yusuf was _hiding_ from him. 

‘Some of these are the same as the runes are on my side. And you have been distant, since the day …since the day you saw me, like that.’ The storm itself pressed against his skin, as furious and _trapped trapped trapped_ as those first months as a man. ‘If it upset you - ’ The words died in his throat, his mind too confused to keep them. Nicolò was drowning, filled with wind and clouds and lightning, rising like bile, ‘if _I_ upset you, you must tell me. But this, Yusuf, please. Are - are you trying to trap me?’

Yusuf dropped back from him, his hands falling away and leaving Nicolò cold, wind sweeping across desolate hills. Yusuf licked his lips, unsure and unsteady. _Unmoored_ , Nicolò thought. Both of them, unmoored by the storm. 

‘Nicolò, of course not, how could you think that?’

‘How could I think anything but that?’ the storm replied. 

‘Nicolò - ’ Yusuf’s hands were raised, as if approaching a wild animal, a wild _thing_.

‘You said you felt as though you were the storm, that you felt how it tumbles and grows and gathers. And - ’ Nicolò’s voice cracked like a flash of lightning, sharp and burnt, ‘you will not touch me. You will not wrap your arms around me. You are frightened of me.’ Thunder shook the ground and Nicolò trembled. The winds keened, demanding to be free, to jump from his lungs and scream his pain to the sky. 

Yusuf started, his dark unreachable eyes and hesitant touches could not hold Nicolò’s shape. The storm pressed and squeezed, forced his skin out of shape. The clear edges of Nicolò blurred, the bewildering mix of wind and clouds tumbling out into the air around him. Nicolò clenched his hands into fists, needing the sharp bite of pain to drag his emotions back. _I am skin and muscle and bone_.

‘Nicolò, please, look at me,’ Yusuf grasped Nicolò’s hands in his, ‘you must calm down.’

He could not calm. His heart rumbled, faster and faster inside his rib cage. The wind whipped across their clothes, free and delighted. Nicolò was dizzy. Yusuf looked towards the sky, his curls loosed from their tie. Nicolò could not take his eyes from Yusuf’s face. Tears pricked at Nicolò’s eyes as rain dropped on his head, bitingly cold.

‘Nicolò, stop this.’

Nicolò could not stop, _would_ not stop. Yusuf’s hands were tight in his own, the knuckles white. Nicolò was gasping, the pressure of the building storm too much and he could not fill his lungs. Yusuf’s chest heaved, his exhale visible in the rapidly cooling air. The sky darkened. Rain blurred Nicolò’s vision, pelting his cheeks. Still, Yusuf held on.

‘Isn’t this what you wanted, Yusuf? To free the storm?’ Nicolò heard his own voice tremble, the weight of his anger dragging him. 

‘Nicolò, listen to me, please.’ Yusuf’s hands moved on him again, along his neck, down his side, and the storm wished to settle. Nicolò wished to calm under his touch but he was too far gone, the storm too forceful.

'I - ' Nicolò fell silent, his thoughts only the spiral of wind and dark clouds. He was too much, too much. He was spinning out of control. The storm inside him screamed and the sky responded in kind. He shrieked, he clashed, he _flew_. 

'Nicolò.' Yusuf clasped Nicolò's hand again and laid it flat upon his own chest. 'Breathe with me.' 

Nicolò was not sure he could, his lungs did not feel like his own. Yet he could not deny Yusuf nor the thread strung between them. It was simple in the end, the air passed from Yusuf's lips to Nicolò's. They were bound to one another, Yusuf was his tether. Yusuf was a familiar shape to remind Nicolò of his own; skin and bones, blood and muscle, lungs and a heart in unfaltering tune with another’s.

'There you are my Nico. I have you. You can let it go now.’ It was not a command as it had been in the desert. It did not screech in Nicolò’s ear nor freeze his limbs. It was an offering, a sharing of a burden, a calming of the storm. 

The clouds lightened, the thunder faded, the rain turned warmer. Staring into Yusuf’s eyes, Nicolò exhaled, releasing only as much as his chest could hold and nothing more. Yusuf cupped his cheek and Nicolò turned into it. 

‘Let me stay.’

'Nico, the storm needs to be free - '

‘I am no longer just the storm Yusuf. I am Nicolò and the storm both, and I …. I do not know how to be without you anymore. I don’t even know how I would begin. How would I fly? How would I be a summer’s breeze or a gentle rainstorm? All I would be without you is a thunderstorm, violent and uninhibited.’ Nicolò watched their interlocked hands. 'Lykon is right. When you died in the Holy City, we were bound together by some unknown magic. And then again, when you told me to drink in the desert. When you saw the rage in me, and still carried me along. When you hold me through my nightmares, when your breath matches mine, when you calm the storm with a touch. We are bound by magic, and friendship, and kindness and - ’ Nicolò paused, the word fluttering on the edge of his thoughts, something important, something he had to say but could not pin down, ‘and I do not wish the strings to be unwound now.'

A sob wrenched itself from Yusuf’s throat, one hand sliding behind Nicolò’s neck so he could drag them together. Yusuf pressed his forehead to Nicolò’s and oh, _oh_ , to share their breath in so small a space, the air still warm from Yusuf’s mouth against Nicolò’s lips. 

'Nicolò, you don’t understand.’ Nicolò could not tell if he heard Yusuf's words or merely felt them, reverberating against his chest, ‘Your magic, it is _you_ , the essence of the trapped storm. This, calling the storm, this is killing you. _I_ am killing you.'

‘You could not - ’

‘I am. The spell, the runes holding you here and tying you to me, they draw upon magic. You are a being of pure magic, Nico. One day, there will not be anything left to draw upon.’

The rain water dripped over Yusuf's head. His curls were pressed tightly to his head, his clothes clung to his skin. Nicolò could feel a slight tremor run through Yusuf, a shiver. Yet Yusuf did not move. He stood in the storm. He breathed and Nicolò breathed.

‘And what about you?’ Nicolò whispered.

‘Me?’

‘You were dead Yusuf. I held your broken, bleeding body in my arms. I _felt_ your breath still. If I am gone, you could die again, finally this time.’

Yusuf sighed, scrubbed his hand down his face. ‘All things die. And I was already dead, Nicolò, this time has been merely a gift. A gift you have already given me. You do not owe me any more of your life.’ 

'You did not trap me, the clerics did. I would still be under their thumb, still fighting, still hurting people. You - you have already set me free. I have learned to read, learned to write, learned to knead bread. I have friends and a home.' Nicolò raised their hands, pressed a kiss to them. 'If I am to die, like all things do, why can I not do it the way I choose?'

Yusuf titled their faces so Nicolò could see his eyes. All the emotion and pain that had been hidden since Nicolò had collapsed, since Yusuf had grown distant and unreachable. _He looks at you the same way,_ Negma said, _as though it is too much_. 

The word again, quivering at the edge of his understanding, slipping between his fingers. Yusuf looked at him now with something so fond, so caring, and so much more. 

'This time has been a gift. A gift you have given me. Yusuf … you call me Nicolò. I have a name. I have a shape.' Nicolò cupped Yusuf's cheek with one hand. 'I have you.'

'You have me,' Yusuf breathed, barely audible. But it did not matter between them. It never mattered. 

‘How can it feel as though you are holding me together and also freeing the storm?’ Nicolò whispered into the air between them. Yusuf drew his thumb along Nicolò’s bottom lip and Nicolò shivered, ‘as though you are unmaking me and remaking me.’ 

Yusuf laughed. ‘I feel the same and I have only ever had one shape. Nico, I - ’ 

It felt inevitable, Yusuf’s warm hand on Nicolò’s cheeks, his breath on Nicolò’s lips. Yusuf’s eyes closed as he tilted Nicolò’s face up, sliding their noses alongside one another. Cool rain dripped from their hair and lashes, down their skin, and between the soft press of their mouths. 

_It was beautiful. You were beautiful,_ Yusuf had said of the storm and Nicolò wished Yusuf could see it now, gentled by Yusuf’s hands, words, and lips.

'Are you two quite finished or shall we tell the neighbours to expect a flood?' Nicolò startled, nearly slipping on the muddy ground with only Yusuf’s arms about him to keep him upright. Lykon, looking deeply unimpressed, and Negma, unsuccessfully hiding a smile, stood on the covered porch.

'I think the rain has stopped for now,' Yusuf replied calmly.

'Then dry off and come in for breakfast,’ Negma called over her shoulder, shooing Lykon inside, ‘I will not have either of you catching cold.’

‘We are coming,’ Yusuf said with a laugh, before turning to Nicolò. He brushed the damp hair off Nicolò’s forehead. ‘We have much to talk about. Nicolò, you must be absolutely certain - ’

‘We will, I promise, but we have time.’ Nicolò traced a raindrop down the line of Yusuf’s neck with his finger, revelling in the way the touch quickened Yusuf’s pulse. 

‘Nicolò,’ Yusuf said, his eyes dark and his voice aching with wonder.

‘Kiss me again?’ Nicolò asked and Yusuf complied. 

The insistent press of Yusuf's lips and hot drag of his hands excited the storm. Wind snatched at their clothes and hair and they kissed until their lungs protested and they had pull apart to gasp for air, yet Nicolò was not afraid. 

Because Nicolò was the storm and Nicolò was the man and Yusuf loved them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! The end of our main story! I do hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Next up is a little Epilogue (setting up for a sequel 😉)


	12. Epilogue: another brewing storm

Yusuf woke with a start, his heart pounding. Snippets of his dream played over in his mind; the woman with dark eyes and mischievous grin, her skin glowing in the sunlight. Ocean waves, the smell of salt. And then another woman, with ice cold eyes, the axe moving as an extension of her own arm. She seemed in pain, her face sharp and pinched. 

He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands, trying to grasp more of the fragments as they started to slip from his memory. The tall man, his light hair flopping across his brow. Parchment in the flickering candlelight. Another woman, so young, the hardest to see. She was kneeling? Or praying? The memories sped up, slipping from his hold. Smoke and fire. Buildings. 

Buildings! A location. He slid out of bed, disturbing the sheets and his bedmate as he scrambled for their packs. He tugged on a shirt and murmured something. Two candles flared to life.

‘Yusuf, what? Come back to bed, it is cold,’ Nicolò moaned, burrowing himself deeper in the sheets and blankets twisted around his legs.

‘I am sorry my heart, I did not mean to wake you. But I had a vision.’ Yusuf crowed delightly when he found his parchment and charcoal. The tip on one of his charcoal sticks miraculously had held its shape despite dropping to the bottom of their pack. 

‘Are you certain?’

‘Nicolò,’ Yusuf spared Nicolò a scathing glance before beginning to sketch, ‘I think by now I can identify a prophetic dream.’

‘I do not mean to doubt your gifts darling, it has just been some years since your last one? Was it ten years ago now?’

‘Closer to fifteen I think, the fire at the granary in Alexandria.’ Yusuf rubbed the dust from the paper and squinted at it. The arch of the gate was too flat so he rubbed at it. Nicolò tutted at him and finally got out of bed, keeping the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. 

‘I will make some breakfast, shall I? And it does not have to be perfect, just get it down before you forget it.’ He handed Yusuf a clean sheet of parchment and tossed the ruined sheet on the banked fire. Yusuf caught his wrist before he could move too far and dragged him back for a kiss. Nicolò bent down with an exaggerated sigh, but not hiding his smile.

‘Where would I be without you?’ Yusuf asked against Nicolò’s lips.

‘Dead,’ Nicolò retorted, slipping out of Yusuf’s grasp. ‘Could you start the fire?’ 

Yusuf spoke the simple spell before returning to drawing. He kept his strokes lighter this time, the shapes of buildings, a wall and a harbour appearing under his hands. ‘Some mages live very long lives, dear one. I could perhaps just be very old, but not yet dead.’ 

‘You would not look as good though, nor have the stamina for what we did last night.’ Nicolò pulled on a tunic and leggings too tight across his thighs, clearly indicating they were Yusuf’s. He dug through the packs again and pulled out a carefully wrapped brick of dried leaves and yesterday’s bread.

‘I knew that you were only keeping me around for my body.’ Yusuf flashed him a quick grin and Nicolò laughed.

‘Yes, my dearest, I chose to stay trapped as a man merely so I could experience the pleasures of your body. Do we have any fruit for breakfast?’

‘Check my pack, I believe I have some dates,’ Yusuf said, putting the finishing touches on the archway from his dream. He blew the dust from the parchment and squinted at it. He still could not place the buildings exactly, but the familiar tug made him believe he had seen them before, perhaps when he travelled as a merchant with his uncle? Which, unhelpfully, had been over a century previously. 

With a sigh, he began to draw one of the faces in the corner of the page, the glowing woman with the playful gleam in her eyes. 

‘Did you dream of Constantinople?’ Nicolò asked, glancing over Yusuf’s shoulder.

‘You know this place?’ Yusuf held the drawing up. Nicolò looked closely at it and then nodded. He held out a date and Yusuf ate it from Nicolò’s fingers. 

‘I think so. Constantinople was one of the first places I saw from the ground, and not the air.’ Nicolò lightly traced along the harbour line with his free hand, ‘that sort of memory stays.’

Yusuf watched Nicolò’s finger move over the stark lines of the drawing, the walls of Constantinople and the partial sketch of the woman. Already, the memory of her and the others were fading. Yusuf needed to get them down on the parchment before it was too late.

He pinched his brow with his thumb and forefinger. This dream held so many unknown pieces, places and people he did not know, blanks in the pattern of the vision. He thought of the smell of smoke and the searing heat against his skin and it soured his stomach. He needed to find out what it all meant.

‘Constantinople then. We will go there first and see what we can find.’

‘We will start with breakfast I think.,’ Nicolò dipped to press a kiss on Yusuf’s cheek, ‘and _then_ I will follow you anywhere.’

Yusuf caught Nicolò’s chin and turned his face so their noses brushed. ‘Promise?’ he whispered.

‘Always.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap folks! (For now) Thank you so much for making it all the way to the end and I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Once again, the biggest thank you for the amazing [Marivan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marivan/pseuds/Marivan) for loving this fic as much as you did and getting me through every low. And [Luna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_sol/pseuds/luna_sol) for being a grammar goddess in the final hours. And every other person who shouted with me, workshopped, sprinted, read snippets, and loved these two dumb idiots as much as I did.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://hyper-fixate.tumblr.com/) if you want! I defintely am not done with this verse yet!
> 
> Look after yourselves out there! <3 <3 <3


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